


Dead Man Walking

by Ook



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Author has no control of her life or plot bunnies, Author indulges self at expense of sanity and decency., Author is very sorry about that, Charles is a BAMF, Erik Is a BAMF, Even when what he does is valeting., Fluff, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, It came from my brain, Logan is the best there is at what he does, M/M, Past Abuse, Sexual Harassment, Slavery, Snark, Tony Stark gets everywhere, Torture, WIP WIP WIP!, past non or dub con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:06:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 32
Words: 49,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ook/pseuds/Ook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cain Marko, cousin to the King, thinks he has found the perfect gift to humiliate King Charles of Genosha. A bodyservant; a slave who no longer thinks of himself as Erik Lehsherr, or even as alive.</p><p>Can Charles deal with his cousin, his Court, restore Erik to himself and ban slavery in his kingdom without sleeping with his bodyservant?</p><p>What do you think?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So. Another WIP.  
> *guilty foot shuffle*
> 
> Sorry about that. Can't get this bunny out of my head any other way. Many thanks to Kernezelda, for a fast and fantastic beta-ing.
> 
> I am having major problems with the spacings in this chapter. Sorry.

The audience hall is crowded. He stares at his hands, held obediently open on his thighs, and ignores the dull ache in his knees from prolonged kneeling on polished marble. The richly dressed crowd murmur among themselves as the light from the thousands of lanterns and candles flicker in the corner of his eye.

All the ornaments; the carvings and the high windows, bathed in the light of all those candles, seem rich and golden, fitting for a king’s hall. He wonders if he, too, is considered fitting. He’s scarcely able to be described as ornamental.

The hall is crowded, close and hot, but the gauzy trousers and near-transparent tunic draped around him hold no warmth. He straightens his spine and resists the desire to shiver.

 _Erik Lehnsherr is a dead man_ , he reminds himself, silently. _He has no desires_.

Once, in the town where he grew up, before the burning man came to it, and unmade it, little Erik had seen a dead man. The first man, but by no means the last, that he’d seen die. He’d just dropped down at the corner of the market closest to the blacksmith’s shop. Thump, falling in the street like a sack of horseshoes for Erik’s father to fix.

He’d been afraid, then. He’d cried. His mother (he had had a mother back then, before the burning man) had taken him on her lap, wiped away his tears, and explained how being dead didn’t hurt. The dead man would not feel the cold, or hunger, he could not be hurt anymore.

Only the living were vulnerable to harm or suffering.

After his town had been laid waste, after the burning man and his kind had come and gone, and taken him captive away with them, not-so-little Erik remembered that day. He had resolved to be dead. Even if he still breathed and bled and sweated, he would feel no pain, no shame, and shed no tears.

Dead men feel no fear, no hunger, no pain.

No humiliation.

However many arrogant, ignorant aristos stare at the corpse-body slave, kneeling in the king’s audience hall, draped in tacky and badly gilded chains and ugly jewels, the corpse doesn’t care. It can’t hear the murmurs, delighted or disgusted or intrigued, as they look from the kneeling dead man to the standing aristo holding his leash. The standing man is soft; plump with self indulgence and petulance. If he weren’t a corpse, he’d spare some hatred or disgust, just for him.

Only let him see the burning man, the corpse thinks. _Let me see him, and I will be alive again, just once more._

It’s unlikely; but the faint possibility that he might meet _the_ killer, the man who murdered? his town and his family and himself keeps him from using his faint metal sense to pick the locks on his shackles, from trying to kill as many as he can before they cut him down. His anger has long  gone dead and cold within him; fitting for a dead man, he supposes.

Now all he has left is the dry grey serenity of almost complete despair and an all-consuming hatred perfectly balanced between self and world. And a purpose. 

The man holding his leash prods him, un-gently, in the back with one boot.

“Straighten up!” he hisses, voice tight with nerves and excitement. “The king’s coming.”

The dead man straightens. If he felt anything, if he was alive, right now, he might feel anticipation as well as fear. The King is the man he is to be gifted to, he knows that. The King is young, the cousin of the man holding his bonds, and hated by him, although - the dead man is vaguely aware - well-loved by his people.

He knows, too, that the young King recently outlawed the enslavement of those under the age of twenty one, and gathered all those so enslaved to him; although no-one is quite sure where or why. _Perhaps he wanted a harem_ , the dead man thinks, a little fuzzy now. He is - or he would be, if he was alive - hungry, and very tired.

The … preparations for his presentation were extensive. They had not included shoes, unfortunately; perhaps because he wasn’t going to be doing much walking in the near future. They had involved a lot of primping and painting, not that it will do much good.

He knows he is older, by far than any other body servant in the hall. Older than the man he is to serve; implying that the role of master and slave could or should be reversed.  The dead man knows he is an insult, carefully selected and  - _trained_ \- by the cousin to that end. Dead men know a lot of things.

Not that knowing things is any help, or comfort. Another kick re-focuses his attention on the here and now.

“Cousin!” the man holding his leash flourishes it after a formal bow, shallow to the point of non-existence. The collar tightens painfully on his throat, and he swallows.  “I have a gift for you, to celebrate the end of the Regency.”

“So I… see.” It’s a younger, lighter voice. The dead man does not look up; having been taught too well that movement of any kind on his part requires a direct instruction. He gazes at his hands. They’re very clean and polished, for hands that belong to the dead.

“I understand your preferences are for … greener fruit, but--”

“My _preference_ is that people do not, ah, discuss my preferences, for fruit or anything else. Cousin.”

The other members of the king’s audience murmur, and the kneeling man wonders precisely how the King- for it must be him, speaking - could put so much threat into so few words, and all of them spoken so sweetly. A pair of black boots, beautifully polished, step into his range of sight. He does not flinch. The boot behind him prods again, and the cousin hisses at him to look up. The dead man calmly does so.

The King is indeed young; and fair.   _and freckled_ he notes, absently, and he will own the corpse until he sells him, or turns him into a corpse in fact as well as feeling. The king’s  brown hair is thick and crisp, and he runs a hand through it and smiles.

The king’s eyes are the most beautiful shade of blue the dead man has ever seen. He almost blinks, in surprise, before his training kicks in. The man is to be his master; the one he will serve with his body, howsoever he is instructed. The man is a king.

He looks, politely, past the King’s silk and velvet draped shoulder. He is dead, and the dead (and bodyservants) do not look the living in the eye, even - or especially - when they are as alive as this man, this king is. The king holds out his hand, and the cousin places the leash into it.

The cousin opens his mouth and makes a noise, as if about to speak, and the king looks at him, mildly. The cousin closes his mouth again. The kneeling man represses his lips’ desire to quirk upwards, seeing him so silenced. The king does not glance aside. He looks straight at the man knelt at his feet, and then he smiles.

“Hello.”

The dead man remains still, silent. He moves and talks when ordered, not before. Something - a shadow, a darkness - flickers in the king’s remarkable eyes, and the dead man is startled into swallowing. The King’s eyes briefly shift to the kneeling man’s throat.

“I am Charles.” He says it brightly, when he returns to looking the dead man in the eye.

“The king,” the cousin puts in from behind. Charles’ - the king’s - eyes flicker again, and his hand tightens on the leash.

“If I had to _tell_ people I was the king, Cain, I wouldn’t be a very good one, now, would I?” His smile turns cold and sharp. It softens into something warm and almost coaxing as he returns his attention to the kneeling man. “Please, what is _your_ name?”

He opens his mouth, and something strange happens. Because what he intends to say is what he has been trained to say; that his name is whatever his master, his owner wishes it to be. But what ends up coming out of his mouth is the truth.

“Erik,” he says aloud, voice strange to his ears after so much silence, while internally he thinks. _And I am dead. You cannot hurt me._ “My name is Erik, master. Should you wish it.” The king’s eyes narrow.

“Is that so?” he asks, softly. Erik is seized with the sudden conviction that the King <i>heard</i> him thinking. But given that the king neither strikes him nor orders him beaten, he deems it a foolish thought, nothing more.

He wonders when he started looking the King in the eye.

It is as if they are alone. The huge hall, the staring, murmuring crowds fade into the background, nothing more than the sound of waves on the beach. The two of them, master and slave, face each other in a shared private bubble.

“Thank you, cousin.” Something in King Charles’ tone makes Cain stumble as he moves away. The King looks down at Erik, thoughtfully. “Can you stand?”

“Yes, master.” He can. If he’s ordered to. A king must be used to giving orders. He wonders what orders this one is planning on giving him.

“Then, please--” he gestures with his free hand, the one not holding Erik’s leash. “Stand, if you would.”

Carefully, Erik unfolds aching limbs and stands, as gracefully as muscles and bone allow. He is taller than the King, even barefoot. Taller, too than the cousin, although he knew that already. The King moves closer. Erik does not flinch. What good would it do?

There is a brief moment where the King fiddles with the collar, unhooking the fastenings, and then he is stepping away from the dead man, who feels no pang about the distance opening up between them.

The ugly metal leash and collar dangle between the King’s slim, strong fingers like a dead snake.

“Would you follow me, please?” the King requests, mildly, and does not wait to see if he is obeyed before turning to go.

Erik follows him


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles would like to kill his cousin. Erik is not sure what's happening.

Charles would like to kill his cousin.

This is not, by itself, news. Cain and he have been caught in a web of cordial hatred pretty much ever since Cain, aged eight, had realised that while he might be bigger than his four year old cousin, stronger and faster, he would never be King, because his father, Kurt of the Markos, was merely the King’s brother in law.

Only the child of the King or the child of the child of a King would get to be King in turn. Brothers in law did not count. Fortunately for Westchester - and, indeed Charles himself. But still. This, even for Cain, is a bit much. And Cain has a history of excess.

The whole court - the whole _country_ \- knows Charles’ opinions of slavery.

He’d stamp it out, root and branch, if he could. But he’s not actually a tyrant - _more’s the pity_ \- and so he has to move by degrees, first forbidding the sale of children, then forbidding the enslavement of people under the age of 21 and so on. 

He _will_ outlaw it completely in time, but it’s going to take time to do. Not that anyone still labouring under the yoke of slavery will care for Charles’s need to keep his crown and his authority, he knows. He is putting his own needs ahead of theirs, after all.

It is traditional for a man or woman of noble blood to take a bodyservant - always of the same gender, don’t want any bastards, you know - to keep their beds warm before marriage. Sometimes after marriage, too. It’s also traditional for the bodyservant to be a slave.

Given how some of his courtiers behave, Charles is fairly sure that part of the tradition is so because only someone who couldn’t say no would be found warming the beds of some of them. He doesn’t understand that himself, nor does he really wish to.

Charles has always wanted, no, _needed_ equality of affection and desire in his partners - most telepaths do. Feelings come through very strongly during moments of intense intimacy or physical closeness with another person. The idea of lying with anyone who didn’t want to be there, or was only there because they needed the money, or couldn’t leave - well.

Charles would just prefer his right hand, thank you so awfully much. _Much_ easier. Or to never be able to get an erection again. Other people’s fear and pain _burn_ , and they are sticky feelings; they cling and stain everything – everyone - they touch.

Cain gave him a slave as a bodyservant. A full grown man, too - a nice implication that Charles is the weak one, is still the boy of a pair. Charles has heard Cain’s sneers about his kingly cousin - that he not only looks soft, and delicate: he _is_ soft, and delicate.

Perhaps Cain thinks Charles will want to break the man as a show of strength. He was so silent, so dignified and strong down there on his knees amid the gossiping crowd. Charles felt drawn to him even before he guessed Cain’s intention.

Perhaps Cain thinks Charles would try to break Erik, and fail. A further weakening of Charles’s position, in the eyes of the Court.

Erik- who thinks of himself as dead, Charles recalls with a shiver - looks frail- from the outside: skinny to the point of borderline malnutrition. Something will have to be done about that. Charles has seen his mind, though, and Erik’s physical appearance is deceptive.

Still as water, deeper than the earth and as quietly patient as a waiting knife; no, Charles does not think Erik could be easily broken. The shielded silver flash in his eyes raised to Charles’ told him that, even before the dull brushed-steel beauty of his thinking mind confirmed it. 

Oh, Erik has bent - like worked iron - in slavery, but he will bend no further, yield no more of his self than he has done so already. Erik will die before he breaks; Charles knows it to be cold truth. He fights down a small shiver at the thought.

Charles is drawn to strength in others, and Erik is, underneath the gauze and paint Cain lathered him in, a strong man. He must be, to have endured so much. Charles did not read him very deeply; just enough to ensure he was not actually intended by Cain to kill Charles in his sleep, or capable of it in his own capacity. As far as Charles can tell, he’s probably safe from Erik for now.

Charles glances at the tall, gaunt man silently pacing barefoot behind him, and makes a snap decision. Much as the idea appeals to him of Erik lolling on the steps at his throne’s side, staring down the court, lazy and satisfied, or standing behind it, sleek and dangerous and deadly, putting fear into the hearts of the greedy and the ignorant, it’s not going to happen tonight.

Erik is strong, yes, but he’s also tired, cold, hungry and wary. The lord of twilight alone knows what he’s been put through, to prepare him for tonight. He needs, Charles thinks, feeding and clothing and rest before anything else. And Charles needs to talk to him, in private, to explain some things, as soon as he possibly can.

 _Lady Moira?_ Charles flicks the thought into the air lightly, and feels Moira’s slight surprise at the contact. Normally Charles knows better than to bother the housekeeper during his monthly audience. She’s rushed off her feet. _I don’t know if you’ve heard what Cain--_

 _Oh, I heard. Cain’s given you a shiny new toy._ Her tone is wry. _How can I help, your Majesty?_

 _Ah, well, Erik needs - he needs food, and, um, clothes, and a bed--_

_Erik, hmm? Is he pretty?_ Her thoughts turn warm, suggestive. _Fit for a King?_

 ** _Don’t,_** Charles all but begs. _Please._ He draws a breath and adds, _I’m bringing him to my chambers now, but I can’t stay long and… he’s being so brave, but--_

 _I hear and understand._ Moira’s mental voice rings as crisp as her spoken word. _Don’t fret. We’ll do what we can now, and let tomorrow’s problems wait ‘til tomorrow._

 _Thank you._

Logan pushes himself off the wall he was holding up and falls in behind Charles smoothly. Erik ignores him, blandly studying Charles’ back as they move out of the audience hall and into smaller, private corridors, his face blank.

Erik stays blank as they climb stairs, and blank as they march along carpeted passageways. Blank as the guard swings open the door to the King’s private chambers, and blank as he follows Charles and Logan inside. Charles is mildly impressed, or he would be if he wasn’t worried about the limits of Erik’s endurance.

He seems so _tired._

Logan takes the collar and leash from Charles’ hand. Erik stiffens, slightly. Logan snorts as he lifts the hot, heavy blue and cream velvet robes of state from Charles’ shoulders to drape on their stand, before moving to lean against the wall. He kicks the collar and leash into the corner. Charles drops into one of the two chairs drawn up to the small fire with a sigh.

“Please, sit.” Although Charles gestures at the other chair, Erik moves toward the fire and sinks - gracefully, of course - to the carpet almost at Charles’ feet. Logan snorts; Erik ignores him. “I cannot stay long; my wretched courtiers fuss so if they’re given the slightest excuse to feel neglected.” Erik blinks at him, stolid and unmoving. Charles leans forwards, spreading his hands out.

“I will manumit you - and every slave in this country - as soon as I can.” It’s a promise, fervent in his voice and the sternness of his eyes. Erik’s expression doesn’t change much - a minute expression - hope, disbelief? - flickers in the back of his opaque gaze; it’s gone too fast for Charles to be certain what it was. 

“But I believe that my cousin gave you to me as a way of undermining me in the eyes of the court; if I release you too soon that may well confirm it. I’m sorry.” Charles’ fingers wriggle, unhappily. 

“It is neither my intent nor my desire to harm or allow you to come to harm while you are under my - protection.” Charles hopes he sounds as sincere as he feels. Erik’s face stays blank, unmoved. 

“I know that it’s highly unlikely you’re capable of believing or trusting me over this, yet - especially as I can’t manumit you immediately - but I do ask you to at least consider it possible I’m speaking the truth.” Anxiety and a stubborn determination to endure rise off Erik like steam. Charles licks his lips, looking for the words that will reach him. Erik eyes Charles warily. 

Charles can feel the struggle - to believe, to not believe - taking place in Erik’s mind. Coaxingly, Charles puts his hands out, open, towards Erik. Obedient to the implied request, but also, Charles hopes, with some degree of an attempt to trust Erik lifts his own hands to meet Charles’. He clasps long, bony fingers gently. Neither of them is breathing.

“I won’t hurt you.” Charles says. Erik’s hands twitch in his.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik tucks his feet under him a little more securely and watches the madness unfurl in the high-ceilinged room in front of him.
> 
> In which Erik doesn't understand some things; including the King's servants, body modesty and kindness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kernezelda is a marvellous person and we should all send her nice things. Nice thoughts, if nothing else.

Erik tucks his feet under him a little more securely and watches the madness unfurl in the high-ceilinged room in front of him. Lady Moira, the dark-haired, dark-eyed head of housekeeping continues supervising the young man - like Lady Moira, a free person, Erik can always tell - dragging the King’s furniture about. They seem to be enjoying themselves, judging by the quick-fire banter and the smiles.

It’s quite pleasant, sitting here, curled by the fire, now that his master has returned to his courtiers. Everyone seems to be aware of his presence, but no one is talking to him. That’s good. It gives Erik a chance to catch his breath a little, after the astonishing conversation he’d had with the King - the man who owns him now.

He’s not like his cousin at all. He’s not like any man Erik has ever met before. Of course Charles - the King had _meant_ everything he’d said - that he didn’t want to hurt Erik; that he wanted to free him - but he had also meant it when he said he couldn’t.

Erik isn’t really surprised by that; only that the King had – as far as he could tell - been quite serious in his desire to free Erik, and in his desire that Erik believe him, or believe in him, at least. As long as he was capable of obeying them, none of his masters have seemed to care what - or even if - Erik thinks.

“Hey.” The darker girl - Angel, she said she was called - smiles at him, open and friendly, and offers him a cup. Erik regards cup and offerer calmly. Angel looks patient. “It’s tisane. Something warm for you, at least till Scott gets here with the clothes.” She waits, holding the cup out.

He _is_ thirsty. The cousin had put drugs in his water; to keep Erik docile, so he’d skipped on drinking the day of his presentation; he’d known he’d need a clear head. Need to be able to think, although that’s causing him problems right now. The tisane steams placidly. It’s a common blend. Erik takes the cup. Angel doesn’t look away from him.

She puts her hands on her hips and waits, eyebrow raised, until Erik takes a slow sip. It tastes pleasant and mild. He waits, and takes another sip. Nothing happens. The tisane is harmless. He blows on the cup and waits for it to cool a little.

Not that he’d have thought a freewoman like Angel would want to harm him, but… Erik can’t help but be cautious. People don’t give him things, without expecting something in return, after all. And what could he, a bodyservant, even the King’s bodyservant, do for a free person? Angel drops her hands and smiles.

Erik’s too caught up in his musings to notice when he starts drinking the tisane again.

That leads him into wondering about where he’s going to be put at night, or whenever his master has no use for him. Not that he’s expecting much; but if they’re going to chain him, there are no ringbolts in here, so he’ll likely be sleeping elsewhere. He hopes it’s warm. It’s hard to stay flexible in the cold when you can’t move much.

Maybe he’ll sleep in front of the fire, or across the doorway; two popular locations for bodyservants. The carpets are quite thick, and perhaps the presence of the guard on the door negates the need for chains - not that he’s planning on running, or would get far if he did. Not in the Palace, of all places.

Erik blinks, and forces his eyes open, sharply. He has to stay alert. The warmth of the fire, although welcome, is lulling, at a time when he really needs to be on his guard.

“I got the food!” a high voice yelps. Erik does not jump, but it’s a near thing.

A page enters the room, a small dark-haired boy wearing some kind of visor. He’s juggling a tray with bowls and plates. Lady Moira swoops down on him immediately. Erik’s nostrils flare at the savoury scents, but he manages not to stare or drool publically. Just.

“Here.” He looks up to see the Lady Moira standing in front of him, holding the tray. She stares at him in a manner very similar to that of Angel, earlier. Reflex kicks in, and he scrambles to stand, before reaching for the tray. The little page jigs about from foot to foot until the red-haired boy hisses at him to stop.

“Where do you want me to put this, Lady Moira?” Erik keeps his voice calm, quiet, and his eyes from hers as he asks. Pissing off the free servants is one way for a bodyservant to make his or her own life a living hell; and it’s not a mistake Erik’s going to make, if he can help it.

“Inside you,”she says crisply. Erik blinks. That was-- She clarifies. “It’s for you to eat; His Majesty gave orders that you be fed and so on.” She waves a hand around the room. Erik opens his mouth. He has no idea what to say. “Ah, unless you’re not hungry, of course--”

“No!” Erik says, too sharp, too quick. “That is, no, thank you. I… I can eat.” He has to fight not to curl over the tray and snarl. Lady Moira looks away. Erik sits back down again, and busies himself investigating the food until she turns to the page boy with more orders.

Lady Moira nods at him before turning to help Angel and the red-haired boy make up a low bed they’ve trundled out from under the larger one. The crisp linen sheets and thick wool blankets look very fine even before they drape a heavy fur on top. Erik wonders who it is all for.

It looks warm, but neither bed is fitting for a king - too plain, too simple. No hangings or curtains to keep the precious royal inhabitant safe from rebel drafts, no gold or carving to show off a kingly status. Perhaps an honoured guest and their servant, or something of that sort.

Erik focuses on the food. Lady Moira told him he was to eat it. There’s a bowl of something that is either a hearty soup, or a light stew. There is bread; fine _white_ bread, at that. There is cheese, and winter-stored apples, wrinkled and sweet. And a glass of water. Erik picks up the bowl and starts with the stew. It tastes delicious.

Erik tells himself the bread won’t keep; that’s his excuse for eating it all, but he does manage to make himself slip two of the apples into his pocket for later. The little page reappears, carrying a bundle of cloth.

“Here!” He beams, happy behind his strange facepiece. “I got you clothes, an’ a nightshirt an--”

“Me?” Erik speaks softly; he does not want to frighten the child. Children should be happy, like this one. The boy looks at Lady Moira.

“The tailor is coming to measure you for proper clothes, shortly.” Lady Moira says, as the page pulls a face at the red headed boy. “But what you’re wearing now isn’t warm enough to wait, or suitable.” Her voice goes strange on the last word. Erik finds himself flushing. _A dead man has no shame,_ he has to remind himself, for the first time since the King left the room with his bodyguard.

“Tailor?” he asks, at last.

“He’s good, man,” says the red haired boy, brightly. “Make you up something stylish and comfortable, you just wait and see.”

The smaller boy points at his own clothing. “He makes all our liveries.” Angel moves over and ruffles his hair. He ducks out from under her hand, protesting.

Erik leaves the tray and stands to take the offered clothes. A blue tunic, a white shirt and grey trews, just like the ones the boys are wearing. The trews are the same shade of grey blue as the dresses Lady Moira and Angel wear.

“Please put them on, for now.” Lady Moira says. Erik sets his jaw and nods. Orders. He can follow those. And a corpse doesn’t care how it’s garbed.

He stands, hauls his flimsy trousers off and is momentarily grateful that the cousin had insisted on his wearing smallclothes. The apples he tucked away spill out of the pocket, but no one seems to notice. He toes them into the shadows, quickly.

Erik yanks off his shirt, too, and sheds all the ugly jewellery he possibly can. He uses his old shirt as a rough towel to wipe away as much of his face paint as possible before stepping into the trews and shirt.

Something about the quality of the silence in the room makes him look up before he pulls the tunic on.

They all blink as his gaze falls on them, and Erik rounds his shoulders, defensive. He hopes he will not be punished for sharing the sight of his body with people who are not his master. He doesn’t know if that’s something the King will want or not. He doesn’t know what the King will want from him at all.

“What?” he demands, far more harshly than can be deemed polite, or safe.

“I didn’t know you could wear earrings _there_.” The little page speaks in tones of wonder.

“Shut up, Scott.”

“Make me, Sean.”

“It wasn’t my choice,” Erik says absently, as he fastens the tunic and gives it a little tug to make it sit straight. He hopes the King won’t want him to wear them too often. They’re uncomfortable; and they’re made from poor alloys. He can always tell.

“Scott,” Angel says. “You forgot the socks and shoes.” Everyone solemnly regards Erik’s bare feet.

“Tailor’s gonna be measuring him for shoes too.” The page says, dismissively. Erik blinks. He is? 

Calmly, Moira sends the boy out. “Socks, Scott. Now.” Grumbling, Scott goes. “You too, Sean. Angel.” They slip off, too, nodding at Erik as they go. Erik braces himself. He’s fairly sure Lady Moira’s status is high enough to get him beaten or otherwise punished easily.

“Sit.” Erik sits. “On the bed, please, Erik.” Warily, Erik perches himself on the lower bed. The fur is smooth and soft beneath his fingers. Moira looks at him for a long moment, and sighs. Erik waits. Moira turns away, and busies herself with a jug at the side of the room.

“Nobody here is going to try to hurt you.” Lady Moira speaks to the wall. Erik blinks, but doesn’t risk talking. He has no idea what is going on. Lady Moira turns, and she’s holding a basin of water, and a towel. She hands them to Erik, smiling softly. He takes them with a respectful bob of the head as she sits down on the low bed, next to him.

Erik freezes. He is a bodyservant. He serves with his body. He is there to - to serve at others’ pleasure, other people’s orders, always. He can’t - but she might have the King’s favour - he hasn’t been ordered to do, or not do, anything. He belongs to the King--

“You might want to wash your face. You look like a child’s fingerpainted you.” Lady Moira voice is gentle. Erik unwinds the towel from his clenched and shaking fingers. He reminds himself, again, that he is dead, dead, dead.

He washes his face, and waits. Lady Moira waits with him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles wakes up; has a conversation and gets shaved. Logan is involved.

Charles has always woken early. Today, in spite of the late hours he kept the night before, he wakes early for two reasons. The first is that he did not pull the curtains last night; and the sharp wintry light that pours from every window seems intent on stabbing his eyeballs through his eyelids.

The second is the sleeping mind near him.

Charles rolls over to get a better view and notes the shape of Erik’s mind shifting as the slight sound of movement pulls the bodyservant from sleep. He’s curled on his side, facing Charles’ bed, with the silvery grey fur pulled up around his shoulders. His hair, still coated in whatever gunk Cain’s staff had used to control it, is a complete mess, sticking up wildly everywhere.

Outwardly, Erik doesn’t move at all. His eyes stay closed, absurdly long eyelashes almost touching his cheeks, and his breathing stays soft and regular, but his thoughts sharpen as he wakens. Charles rests his chin in his hand, and thinks what to do next. What does Erik need from him today?

Erik doesn’t move, feigning sleep as his thoughts begin to hurry. He’s calculating furiously. Trying to plan without any information about what Charles likes, or will expect. He doesn’t know what his master wants of him, what he’s supposed to do. His nose itches.

Also, he’s hungry again.

So is Charles, and that decides him. He yawns and stretches a little more loudly than necessary. When he looks back at the other bed, Erik’s eyes are open, his face carefully expressionless. Charles smiles at him; he blinks, startled.

“Good morning.” Charles keeps his voice cheerful. “I hope you slept well.” Erik swallows before replying, courteous and bland.

“Yes, Master.” He stays lying down until Charles sits up, and then he moves too, sliding out of the bed to kneel in the chilly morning air.

“Back in a minute,” Charles says, heading to the small washroom. It’s a relief to be away from Erik’s carefully blank gaze, as much of a relief as using the chamber pot is. That makes him think, and he pops his head round the door. Erik hasn’t moved.

“The chamber pot’s through here; if you need it.” Erik nods, slowly, and pads through after him. Charles leaves him to it, trying to respect the other mans’ privacy as much as the light nightshirt will allow. It’s not easy. Erik has a fine body, full of bone and muscle, if a little underfed right now.

Before he rings for breakfast, though, there are things Charles needs to say. He sits back on his bed and waits for Erik to return. He waves him to the other bed when he starts to kneel again.

“It’s not warm enough for that, not until the fire’s been made up at least.” He smiles, trying to joke, but Erik merely nods, expressionless. Charles runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath. “I need to talk to you about your duties.”

Erik’s attention sharpens, homes in on Charles like a bird spotting prey. “Firstly, I want to emphasise that your duties are to me, and to me alone.” Erik nods, sharply. 

“Of course, Master,” he says, smoothly. “My duty is to serve at your orders alone.” 

“Please don’t use that word.” Charles tries not to think about how Erik expects to serve. He doesn’t want to be anyone’s master. However attractive Erik and his body are, he doesn’t want to be served by anyone. Not like that. 

“To clarify: no one is permitted to give you commands except me. At any point. If anyone tells you to do… something; tell them I’m the only person permitted to order you to serve.” Erik blinks again. A thought strikes Charles. “And if anyone tells you to do something and says I’ve told them to tell you, _check._ Because they’ll be lying.” 

Erik cocks his head, curious. 

“You’re under my protection.” Charles says. “I meant it when I said I didn’t want you hurt.” _And I don’t share._ he thinks, a little darkly. Which makes him consider… “And, also, for the moment; I would appreciate it if you did not sleep with anyone, however discreet. If it got out, that, that I wasn’t um, keeping you, um, I would--” 

“Be undermined,” Erik says, quietly. No fool, he. A bodyservant having sex unauthorized by his owner… no, it wouldn’t look good, even if the owner wasn’t Ch- a king. And Erik doubts he’d enjoy the consequences any more than the King would.

“I won’t,” he says aloud. “I won’t displease or weaken you, m- sir. Majesty. I swear.” 

Charles presses his lips together and nods. Erik fights down a shiver. Charles notices.

“Wrap that fur around you - you don’t want to get a chill.” Erik looks startled, but complies. “Moira said Alex would have something for you in a couple of days.” Erik looks a little blanker. “Alex is my tailor. You met him yesterday.” 

“For the measuring.” Erik nods. “He’s Scott’s brother.” He glances away. Rubs his long, beautiful fingers through the fur wrapped around his shoulders. Doesn’t quite fidget. 

Charles can feel Erik’s uncertainties clear across the room; he wants to know what clothes he’ll be allowed, if he has to wear the body jewelry again, what Charles wants. What Charles will want. Charles opens his mouth, to reassure, to promise, again, that things will be better for Erik now, but before he can find the words, the moment snaps in two as the door opens. 

“Majesty.” Logan strolls in with Charles’ shaving kit. He brings a wave of fresh air and the usual sense of serene disrespect for any and all things not on his short and highly idiosyncratic list of “stuff that matters.” He touches his forelock idly. It’s the closest he’ll come to an outward sign of the bone-deep loyalty he feels for Charles. Charles hides a smile. 

“Ah, Logan.” Charles says. “I know you’ve met Erik--” Logan nods at him as he lays out towels and starts whipping up the soap. Erik looks back at the short, surly man carefully. Logan grins at him. 

“Gonna get to know him better.” He promises both of them, fiercely happy. “Sit in the chair.” Erik swallows, sharply, but makes no sound or movement. Charles sits in the chair.

“What do you- Logan. Logan. No.” Charles starts. Logan waves off his protests.

“Sorry, your Majesty. He’s going to be sleeping in here? I get to train him.” Logan turns to Erik, genially. “S’what I do. And I’m the best at what I do.” He begins to smooth the soapy foam across Charles’ cheeks and jawline. Charles keeps his mouth tightly shut. 

“I am already _trained._ ” Erik sounds stiff; his shoulders grow tense. “What I didn’t know before my last--” Logan laughs. Erik’s hands curl into fists. Charles is torn between being pleased Erik’s responding to Logan with defiance and horror at his misunderstanding. 

“Don’t mean bedplay training, bub.” Logan says, cheerfully, as he begins to scrape the razor carefully across Charles’s jaw. “I mean hand to hand, swords or knives maybe, an’ other kinds of fighting.”

“Fighting?” Erik glances at Charles, utterly bewildered. Charles smiles at him through the soap, and the bewilderment only grows. 

“Logan is the head of my bodyguard,” Charles says, around razor strokes. “As he was for my father.”

“An’ I say, anyone close to the King, doesn’t matter what kind of duties they have, they have to know how to protect him.” Logan growls, and turns Charles’s head, gently, before resuming with the razor. Erik relaxes, paradoxically enough. 

“But--” he says.

“Hey. Not saying it’s likely anyone could get in here. And I’m the only guy he _lets_ get real close to him with a blade,” Logan concedes, tilting his head. “But. At night, just you an’ him - you need to know which end of a knife to use and how to knock someone out at least. You’re gonna be his last line of defense, Erik.” He points the razor at Erik, underlining his point. 

“Oh,” Erik says, very quiet. Charles eyes him, worried. Still, even without dipping into his mind, he can tell Erik is intrigued at the idea of being someone’s defender. Being Charles’ defender.

“Don’t run him too ragged,” Charles tells Logan, instead. Logan grins again, and swaps out the razor for a damp hot towel. 

“Reckon that’s your job.” He indicates the two beds. “Whether or not you’re gonna do it.”

“So to speak,” Charles murmurs, emerging freshly shaved from Logan’s care. “Right. Well, I’m sure I have a hundred meetings today.” He stands, stretching, and scratching his ribs through his nightshirt. 

“Food first,” Logan says firmly just as Erik says, gently chiding, “I can bring you food, my lord.”

They both glance at each other. Logan grins. Erik… doesn’t quite smile, but his face lightens.

“Well, if you both insist.” Charles sighs.

“He needs feeding up even if you don’t.” Logan jerks a thumb at Erik. “And maybe a haircut.”

“That’s up to you, Erik,” Charles says firmly. “The haircut part.”

“Not the food,” Logan insists. “That, you gotta do, Erik. Meet me ‘round by the barracks gate, two hours from now.” He nods at Erik, touches his forelock to Charles again, and is gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cain attempts to screw things up; Erik has a flashback. Charles does his best.
> 
> Warning: Erik's flashback is to an aspect of his training as a bodyservant; could be considered torture.

Erik rubs the towel vigorously over his damp, newly shorn, short, bristly hair, and picks up his shirt. He slips it over his head and ties the cuffs with one hand and his teeth. Charles… the King does them for him, if they are dressing at the same time, but he’s alone in the King’s rooms right now. He refolds the towel neatly and emerges from the washroom.

The barber has gone; he was in a hurry for some reason. Not that Erik minded, the man had been wonderfully skilled and swift in his craft, but not one for words. The last time Erik was allowed to cut his hair, they’d used sheep shearing clippers. And before that, the first time… the razor had been dull; he remembers that much. Erik prefers short hair, when he’s allowed.

Shorter hair is so much easier to keep clean and controlled. Most of his masters have wanted something to hang on to, or yank out, or something to decorate, so it’s nice the King seems not to mind Erik cutting his hair, or shedding his body jewelry. He hasn’t punished Erik or ordered him to wear it, anyway.

The suite of rooms beyond is quiet and empty. It’s one of the nicer places Erik’s ever been kept in; he’s starting to like it, almost. Erik paces, carefully not picking up or fiddling with things. Given how much and how often Charles promises not to hurt him, he’s not too worried about it, but he’s still the King’s bodyservant, even if he hasn’t b used yet.

Erik is untouched, unhurt, by anyone. Erik eats the King’s food, wears his clothing and sleeps in his rooms, but is not touched by him. He could always order Erik to serve someone else: some highly honoured guest, or someone he wants to flatter, but no. Nothing. And if Erik is not of use to him, one way or another, how long will it last, this calm, pleasant time?

He knows he’s more off his guard already. It makes Erik uneasy, so he sets it aside and moves to look out of the window to the gardens beyond. They are elegant and well-kept, if a little gaunt and desolate this time of year. Charles - the King has said they get more use in the spring and summer; and Erik wonders if he will still belong to him when that season gets here.

If he’ll have found a way to be of use by then. He shoves that thought away, too. There is fruit in a bowl; Erik distracts himself by choosing an apple. So much food here, but it’s a palace; Erik isn’t surprised by the amount of food available - only that it all seems to be available to him, too. He cannot ever remember eating so much or so often.

He tries to cut the apple with the pocket knife Scott gave him, using his metal-sense, but his head begins to hurt by the time it’s quartered, so he cuts the seeds and core out by hand. The apple is still sweet. Scott gave him the pocket knife because, apparently, “everyone needed a knife.” Possibly he felt bad about forgetting the shoes and socks at first.

Erik hasn’t told anyone.

Most slaves, especially bodyservants, aren’t allowed personal knives. Scott’s gift was only a boy’s generosity, but Erik doesn’t want to risk getting him in trouble by checking. He slips the knife back into his pocket as the door opens and Charles comes through, followed by Sean, the red haired servant from Erik’s first night in these rooms.

Sean is grinning cheerfully. Charles has a slight frown pinching his eyebrows together as he stares at something he is carrying. Sean’s arms are full of clothing, but Erik only has eyes for what is in Charles’s hands. He recognizes that jar; he was never able to read the label but the jar is unmistakable.

Charles looks up in surprise as Erik crashes to his knees. Sean jumps like a startled cat.

“Erik, what--?”

“I’m sorry,” Erik blurts, ungraceful with fear. “I-- please, master, I’m sorry.” He has no idea what he’s done that was so wrong, how he’s displeased; that doesn’t matter. Charles is holding the jar, and that means - that means--

“Sean, leave us, please.” Charles’ eyes never leave Erik’s kneeling form. Sean drops the clothes on the nearest chair and retreats rapidly. His eyes are wide and puzzled. “Erik.” Charles says, and steps forwards.

Erik jerks, wanting to flinch and trying not to move. Charles freezes in place when he sees it, and his jaw drops.

“I’m sorry, Majesty, master. Sorry. Please-- Please, don’t--”

“Erik,” Charles says again, gently. Erik’s mouth snaps shut. “What’s- why do you think I’m about to punish you?”

“I - the jar. You’ve got-- That’s pain cream. Bodyservants--” Charles drops his gaze to the jar, and a look of terrible rage crosses his face. Erik’s forehead touches the floor. He can’t look up. The King is angry; his master has the jar and--

“ _Please,_ ” he says, desperately, although he’s no longer sure what he’s asking for, or why he thinks he’ll get it.

“Erik, I’m not angry with you. Really, I’m not.” Charles says from somewhere far away. “I’m putting the jar down, now, all right?” There’s a clattering noise. Erik sneaks a quick glance upwards; Charles is crouching, empty handed, in front of him. He sways forwards and hides his face against Charles’ boots, mutely pleading for mercy or forgiveness. Charles sighs.

“Well, now I know why Cain gave me that, even if I don’t know what it’s for.” He rests a light hand on Erik’s head. “Think you can stand up?” Erik forces himself to his feet immediately. Charles guides him gently, gentle as always, to the cushion by the fire that he usually sits on. “Rest a minute.” Charles sits in the nearest chair. He doesn’t stop touching Erik.

Erik folds himself back down on the cushion gratefully and waits for his breathing to steady itself. Charles is not angry with him. Doesn’t know what he had in his hands. He gulps in air and blinks.

“Everything will be alright.” Charles says softly, his hand rubbing soothingly across Erik’s shoulders.

“Um,” Erik says, after a little while, and licks his lips, searching for words. He feels so stupid, heart thundering and chest aching.

“Erik,” Charles says, carefully.

“Sorry. I-I should have known you - that you wouldn’t-- I--”

“It’s alright, Erik.” Charles says, patiently. “If that’s something that’s been used on you before; of course you’d worry seeing me holding it.” His fingers flex across Erik’s back.

“You – said - Cain gave it to you, Majesty?” Erik doesn’t even look in the direction of the jar. Charles pinches his lips together and nods.

“I should have realized something was up from the way he was grinning; but he’s annoying most of the time so--” Charles slides his hands along Erik’s arms and grasps Erik’s hands, reassuringly. “I am so, so sorry. I should have warned you - or asked someone else what that stuff does.”

“It’s punishment cream.” Erik says, after a pause. “Mostly, they just call it pain. It - it’s for bodyservants. If you want to hurt them without leaving scars.” Although he’s heard tell of some using it on their spouses, if they’re caught cheating or something.

“It’s _what?_ ” Charles’ voice cracks with astonished horror.

“It burns. Until it’s washed off.” Erik licks dry lips.

“Like fire, but not - it doesn’t scar. And if it’s put somewhere, somewhere sensitive--” He doesn’t say where. He probably doesn’t have to. Erik swallows down the memories of his training, before he learnt better than to be defiant, before he learned how to be dead; the endless hours of burning pain, all his desperate screams choked behind a gag or tearing out of his throat. And after the pain, the shame.

“Lords of night!” Charles breathes out, and then he slides down in his chair, wrapping his arms around Erik fiercely. “I would never. Never do that to you. I _swear_ it. Never.”

Erik rests his head on the King’s’ velvet-clad shoulder and shuts his eyes. “I know that. Really,” he tells Charles’ shoulder.

He feels so warm, there in Charles’ arms. Warm and safe. Charles runs a hand through Erik’s extremely short hair, scratching soothingly at the skull below. Erik winds the fingers of his left hand into the fabric of the King’s sleeve.

“I’m glad you do,” Charles says, mouth close against Erik’s ear, making him shiver pleasantly. “I’m very glad you do.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan and Erik have what passes for a heart to heart conversation.
> 
> Naturally, it has to involve hitting each other with sticks.

The sun is bright on this wintry morning. Logan squints as he tilts his head at the long lean man facing him. Dressed as he is, in plain trews and shirt under a battered leather tunic, Erik could be almost anyone, especially since he cut his hair so short. He narrows his eyes, taking a step back, scuffling his feet on the bare sand of the practice ring. His fingers flex on his stave. 

But not just anyone gets one-on-one training from the King’s Weaponsmaster and chief of his bodyguard. Still, Erik’s worth it.

“Again,” Logan orders curtly. “Try to hit me again. Stop holding back.” Erik swallows, gripping his wooden staff more tightly.

“Might hurt you, sir.” He tries again, without much hope. Logan gives a feral bark of laughter. 

“Kind of the idea, bub.” He looks thoughtful for a moment. “An’ we’ve been doing this every day for a week; you might a’ noticed I’m kinda hard to hurt.” Erik nods. It’s true. The King’s chief bodyguard has a Talent; he heals. Only himself, but very quickly and very thoroughly. It’s a relief; to be able to face someone who won’t punish him for striking him, because nothing he can do is permanent. 

“Hard to kill’s not the same as hard to hurt.” Erik says. Logan gives him a grin.

“Both ‘bout the same for you, from where I’m standin’. Come _on!_ ” Erik moves, dancing close enough for a quick strike. Logan pivots, and Erik’s staff strikes his with a harsh _clack._

Erik feels the muscles of his back start to unclench as he gives himself up to the simple joy of moving fast and well. The staff is light in his hand, the smooth metal caps at each end singing past as he strikes again. He almost smiles. 

“Better,” Logan grunts. Then there is nothing but block, strike, parry from both of them, for a while. Most of the men lounging on the rails surrounding the practice ring - off duty guards or servants - drift away to other things. Logan notes the ones who don’t. Erik still needs someone to watch his back, ‘til he learns he’s allowed to do it for himself. 

“So,” Logan says, when they stop to mop sweat from their eyes for a moment. “You settling in any better?” His eyes track Erik’s uneasy twitch. “Lookin’ better, at any rate.”

“Everyone keeps giving me food,” Erik mutters at the ground. “It’s… I’ve never been anywhere like this before.” 

Logan nods, moving into a ready position. Erik didn’t need to tell him that one. The lanky man is filling out a little; although he’s probably always going to be a skinny stick.

“Some of ‘em, they’re not your usual royal servants, no. Himself likes it that way.” He shrugs.

“Including you?” Erik says, and Logan _grins_ at the spark of challenge in Erik’s eyes. 

“Yup.” He lifts his staff. Erik copies him. “Again.” Erik doesn’t quite sigh.

“How long…” Erik trails off.

“We gonna keep doing this?” Logan barrels through, purposely ignoring any other interpretations of Erik’s question. “Until you learn that when I say ‘hit me’ I mean _’hit me’_ , ta start with.” 

“Move less, then.” Erik says, and starts the dance all over again.

“An’ make it easy on you? Not my style, bub.” Logan whirls, and brings his staff around behind Erik’s knees. Erik hits the dirt with an audible groan as the air is driven from his lungs. He gets up again fast, and without whining. Which is more than most of Logan’s sparring partners manage to do. 

Logan likes him more and more every time that happens, because he’s starting think it might be more that Erik’s finding something to get up for, something stubborn inside him, rather than just taking all the blows ‘cause the man’s been taught that’s his lot in life. 

“Getting better,” he says cheerfully.

Erik eyes him. “When will I be good enough?” he asks, after a pause. His knuckles go white on his staff.

“To hit me? On purpose, stead of by accident?“ 

Logan smiles, remembering the horrified look on Erik’s face the first time his clumsy stave had hit Logan’s face, cutting it open. His amazement when it had healed without a trace, in one breath, had been a sight to see. Erik shakes his head, curtly. 

“To – please him. He-- I don’t--” Erik glances away. Logan takes the opportunity to dump him on his ass again.

“Think an’ talk while you fight, not in between,” he advises. Erik’s mouth sets in a thin, grim line. He raises his staff and swings. 

“He-- I’m a bodyservant,” Erik grits out between blows. “But we don’t-- He doesn’t--”

“Ah!” Logan grunts as Erik’s staff impacts his ribs. “Himself’s an odd duck. About that.” Erik stares at him. Logan sighs, and answers the mute appeal there. 

“The King’s a mind-reader. His sister's ashifter, but he can hear what you think, feel what you feel.” Erik gapes. “Oh yeah.” Logan grins. “So unless an’ until you _want_ him to touch you - really want him, and really want touching, he ain’t gonna.”

“Why?” Erik cocks his head, bewildered. Logan taps his arm with his staff, a reminder to keep his guard up. 

“Why what?”

“Why does it matter?”

“What you want?” Logan asks, incredulous. Erik nods. _Bodyservant,_ the weaponsmaster reminds himself. He takes a deep breath. “Because he can feel what you feel, dumbass.” Erik looks puzzled. 

Logan continues to explain in small words. “Touching someone who doesn’t want it, or you - feels bad to a reader. Bout as bad as bein' touched when you don't want it.” 

“Oh.” Erik looks a little lost. Logan lets him be a while, circling and waiting for him to move again. 

“Once you lay a good hit on me with these, we can start practicing with knives.” Logan promises, and is pleased when the other man’s eyes flicker. He’s thinking as well as fighting. Good.

“Knives?” Erik feints. Logan parries.

“Quicker to pick up than a sword, for you, I reckon. And more useful.” 

“More useful?” Erik steps sideways.

“Yeah. ‘Spect anyone tries to get to Himself when you’re around is gonna go for knives rather than anything bigger. An’ your Talent, well--” Logan breaks off as Erik stumbles back a pace or two, eyes wide. 

“You-- How do you know?” His eyes are dark, warier than they have been for a while. Logan taps his nose.

“I know all kinds of stuff, bub. Best there is, remember?” And Charles told him; but he’s not gonna mention that. Weaponsmaster has to have a reputation, after all. “Metal, right? Knives’ll be just your style. Might want to look into working on your talent, sometime. See if you can get better with it.” 

Erik nods curtly, and swings. 

“Now, if you had more use of your Talent,” Logan says, barely out of breath, after blocking Erik’s strike again. “You could try yanking the staff out o’ my hand by the caps.” Erik’s forehead creases in sudden thought. “Or pick a lock or three, or dull a blade before it cuts you - or Himself.” 

“Himself is the King,” Erik observes, neutral, circling in again. “Last line of defense, again?” Logan nods.

“He’s a good one. And a good man,” Logan says. “Wouldn’t be here, else.” Erik nods, conceding that. 

“Now, one more time.” Logan grins again. “ _Hit me._ ” 

Erik hits him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik pushes himself too hard and gets a headache. Charles looks after him.

Erik glares at the armoured gauntlet. He’d carried it off discreetly after following Logan through the armoury at the end of their last spar. _Practice your Talent_ , Logan had said. And the idea had sprouted. Perhaps… if he was able to be useful with his Talent, it wouldn’t matter that the King had no use for his body in other ways. Although that’s pretty close to hope, and hope isn’t something the dead need, or have.

It’s getting harder and harder for Erik to remember that he is dead.

Pain spikes in his head, and Erik wearily pinches the bridge of his nose. The gauntlet mocks him as it lies on a side table, gleaming dully in the light from the King’s high windows. It is broken, the joints over the fingers rusted and unmoving. It’s just scrap, a discard. Perfect for him to practice his talent on. 

If he could actually get his Talent to begin working usefully.

Erik _shoves_ his metal-sense towards the gauntlet, which shivers and rocks slightly, but does not move.

 _Move!_ he tells it, ignoring the rising pain. _Move, you useless piece of junk, move move **move!**_

It moves. It rises in the air, hovering above the table.

Erik holds his breath. The gauntlet hovers for one second. Two. Three. He starts to grin, partially with the effort, partially with satisfaction; at least he can work his will on--

The gauntlet jerks sideways, scraping a deep scratch in the fine polish of the tabletop, and slides to the floor with a smug clang.

Erik bites his tongue, refuses to swear and starts again.

And again.

Eventually, Erik blinks wearily. His head hurts. The pain went beyond aching a while ago; now he feels a regular pounding, an impossible to bear pressure wrapped around his head. Perhaps he should have stopped before his nose began bleeding. He resists the urge to whimper. People might hear.

Erik thinks the top of his skull will peel off, and his brains will spill out, if he tries to do anything more, so he stumbles away from the table and the gauntlet. The gauntlet is shining; and now the fingers will open and close without screeching. It might be enough, for now. His eyes refuse to focus as he stumbles through to the bedroom, and stops, swaying.

His - no, not his bed, but the bed the King allows him to sleep in - is a truckle bed, and the maidservants like pushing it under the main bed more than they like pulling it out again afterwards. Normally that wouldn’t matter; Erik’s perfectly capable of pulling it out himself of an evening, but now - now he isn’t, and he needs to lie down so badly - his head is pounding, pounding, pounding.

Erik half sits, half falls onto the King’s bed. The light, even the light from the lanterns, is too bright, spearing into his eyes viciously. He can’t stay there, he knows, but in a minute he’ll be able to get up again, able to just lie on the floor until he can think properly. In a minute.

 

“--I fail to see-- Erik!” The speaker breaks off, sharply. Footsteps rustle over the carpets towards the bed. Light blooms as someone trims the lanterns. Erik whimpers, faintly, in the extremes of agony, as the brighter light stabs through his tight-shut eyes. His head feels as if it’s _exploding_ , very very slowly.

“Erik?” Logan’s voice, there.

“His head hurts,” the King says, worriedly. “I--”

Erik automatically tries to stand, to greet his master correctly, but he can’t even open his eyes before sagging back into his fetal curl on top of the King’s bed.

“-‘s wrong with him?” A hand rests lightly on Erik’s forehead. It’s very nice.

“Talent-based migraine, I think.” Erik tips his head towards the hand, and tries to at least sit, but that turns out to be a mistake.

“No- don’t try to move, Erik--” Gentle hands ease him back against the bed. Vaguely, Erik thinks, _This is wrong._ He’s not allowed - not allowed to - something. He hopes he hasn’t made anyone angry.

“Sorry--” Erik mumbles, tongue thick and voice slurring. “Was trying--” The fingers on his right hand wiggle feebly. “T’be useful.”

“Plenty ways of being useful without scrambling your goddamn brains, kid.” Logan growls, and Erik swallows back a spasm of nausea. He’s not wanted the best ways he knows how to be useful, doesn’t Logan know that yet?

“Talent.” He neither agrees nor disagrees. Someone catches their breath, sharply.

“All right,” says the king, after a pause. “Let’s get you as comfortable as we can.”

The gentle hands come back. A damp cloth wipes across his face, cleaning away the dried blood and the tear tracks. It’s soothing. A cup is held to his lips; hands support his head as he drinks, thirstily. Watered wine, refreshing. Then someone unfastens his boots and unbuckles his belt. Erik knows what that means.

“No,” he tells the pillow, without any hope of being heard, when his trews are peeled off. “Not allowed to.”

Dreamily, Erik thinks just how much he prefers the King forcing him to not have sex, compared to the ways his previous masters forced him to have sex.

“Logan is just - just helping you.” Charles’ voice is tight, with some emotion Erik can’t quite parse right now.

“Sorry,” Erik says, on general principles.

“Not your fault, kid,” Logan says, and Erik hums, gratefully. There’s a little tugging and jerking that’s really not too painful. Erik swallows back his groan, and then someone spreads a blanket over him. The bed dips and sways.

“You gonna--”

“Yes.” The King’s voice is crisp, and unexpectedly close.

His hands - Erik recognizes those hands - encircle Erik’s head, fingers meeting behind and thumbs resting on his forehead.

“I.” Erik blinks. “I don’t--” And then the pain begins to flow away like water sinking into dry and thirsty soil. Erik sighs in equal amounts of relief and disbelief.

“Logan, we’ll need water and--”

“On it.”

Footsteps again, and silence. Erik lies there, content to do nothing as the last vestiges of pain are firmly escorted out of his head.

“Does this happen every time you use your Talent?” Charles asks him, after a pause. “It seems - maybe some kind of block--”

“Pushed too hard,” Erik admits. “Trying - I wanted to be useful.” He does. He doesn’t want-- Everyone else around the King has a purpose: a skill, a service to offer, except him. 

What Erik can do, the King doesn’t want. Charles doesn’t want him. Even here, in the soft twilight with Charles closer to him than he’s ever been, hands holding Erik’s aching skull together, Charles doesn’t want him.

“Oh, I - you don’t have to be useful,” Charles says, voice quiet.

“Do.” Erik speaks very softly as he opens his eyes. Charles looks at him intently. “Slave,” he reminds him.

Charles makes a face.

“Bodyservant, then.” Erik concedes the point. “Majesty, I’m _supposed_ to serve.”

“You’re not supposed to _hurt_ yourself--” Erik snorts a laugh. Charles presses his lips together.

“Supposed to let other people do that,” Erik says, roughly, and gulps. Charles sighs.

Erik’s head doesn’t hurt anymore, but his shoulders and back ache, and he’s tired. The King moves his hands, then, from Erik’s head, to his neck, his shoulders, and begins to squeeze and release, lightly. It feels heavenly. Erik opens his eyes again, startled.

What is Charles trying to _do_ to him, with his care and comfort and compassion? It’s wasted on a dead man.

 _You are **not dead** , Erik Lehnsherr._ Charles hisses, and Erik’s eyes go wide. That was-- Charles’s mouth didn’t move.

“Mind reader,” he reminds himself. Charles exhales, softly, and resumes kneading Erik’s tense shoulders. Erik sits up, allowing Charles greater access to his back.

“My sister’s a shape shifter,” the King says, slowly. “And you have a metal-sense and - do I have to repeat myself? You’re. Not. Dead. Stop saying--”

“Easier if I am.” Erik shakes his head. “I don’t care, then. Don’t feel--”

“Maybe you should--” Charles breaks off, frustrated. He doesn’t stop touching Erik.

“Is that an order? Majesty?” Erik almost sneers, and then he hears what he’s saying, as Charles’ face goes stricken. “I-- Please. Majesty. I, I don’t mean-- Forgive my insolence.”

“No,” Charles says, almost tonelessly. Erik’s heart lurches. “No, that wasn’t insolence.”

He continues in a warmer tone, and Erik breathes again. “I just.” He pauses. “There are some things that shouldn’t involve orders. Some things - services, if you must - no one should command.”

 _And,_ Erik thinks, _You don’t want **me** , anyway._ He closes his eyes, briefly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. That’s - I--.” Charles slams his mouth shut. Erik snaps his eyes open.

Is the King blushing?

Politely, Erik looks away, stifling a yawn. He tries to steel himself to move off the King’s bed and get his own ready. Charles’ hand on his wrist stops him.

“It’s late,” he says, softly. “You’re tired, and it won’t take much to start your migraine up again. Do you - you can rest here. Tonight. I’ll - there’s the couch or--” Erik blinks. The King is volunteering his own _bed_ , now.

He licks his lips. Searches for the words.

“You - you don’t have to-- It’s a big bed,” he offers, eventually. Charles smiles.

“Are you asking--”

“Stay.” It’s perhaps the first thing Erik’s dared to ask for, wanted just for himself in so very long. “Please,” he adds.

Charles stays.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after; Erik makes a discovery. And an offer. Charles reacts to both.
> 
> TW: discussion of past abuse, scars.

Erik wakes before the King does, which he doesn’t expect; but perhaps whatever he did to make Erik’s pain go away last night was tiring. King Charles is still there next to him, curled into his side and snuffling slightly in his sleep. Erik is mildly bemused to note he’s wrapped an arm around the King’s shoulder. 

The King’s _bare_ shoulder. Charles didn’t bother with his nightshirt last night. Erik bites his lip; usually it’s been his task to help the King into his sleeping clothes and adjust his robes once he’s dressed. This time he was too tired and too much in pain to do more than flop all over the King’s own bed. 

“Fsgl,” Charles says, still sleeping, and turns his face into Erik’s chest - _also_ bare - moving in a little closer. Erik relaxes further. Charles is asleep, he’s not going to want anything Erik doesn’t when he wakes up. And he’s very warm. Erik takes a moment to soak in the simple, safe pleasure of touching another human, and smiles before he realizes he’s going to. 

He turns his head to study his sleeping King, outlined and gilded by the pale sunlight of a winter’s morning.

Charles has freckles on his eyelids. Erik has never noticed that before. Asleep, Charles seems… not younger, but slightly paler, fresher and less lined. The vibrant air of authority and command he usually carries like an extra robe of state is also asleep. His cheeks are slightly flushed, and his hair is curling wildly. A slight frown wrinkles his forehead, briefly. Erik holds his breath until the King’s face relaxes again.

Charles is beautiful. 

Erik wonders why he didn’t see it before. He was too busy looking at the King, watching his master, to really see Charles. Erik wonders how many people really see Charles, and not his role, not his act, apart from maybe the Lady Moira and Logan. Without his permission, Erik’s hand dips lower, slipping from Charles’s shoulder to trace over the cream and spice flecked skin of his back. Charles doesn’t stir. 

A few brushes in, Erik’s brain analyses the meaning of the shifting textures of skin under his fingertips, and he freezes, startled. Charles mumbles again, disturbed by this sudden cessation of a sensation. Mechanically, Erik starts stroking his back once more. Charles settles back into quiet sleep. 

Charles, the King, has _scars_. Regular, repeated scars. 

They’re faint; suggesting age, but they’re there. They’re long, regular and thin, so possibly a cane or a belt was used, but someone has whipped Charles. Has _beaten_ the King. Erik swallows down an unexpected jolt of emotions: anger, sympathy, protectiveness, that he has never expected to feel on behalf of his master, his owner. 

It’s not _right_ that someone should have hurt Charles. Not right at all. 

He closes his eyes against the light and the feelings, losing himself in the simple pleasure of the here and now; he’s warm, he’s clean, he’s not starving and he’s... well. It’s hard to even think the word, let alone feel it, but. He’s safe. Or as close to it as he’s ever likely to be. 

_You **are** safe,_ Charles murmurs, sleepily, and Erik hums in agreement. 

Charles’s sleepiness is, in fact, infectious, and Erik lets himself drift away into a doze without worrying about breakfast or Charles’s timetable or anything else, for that matter. When he wakes, the bed is empty. Erik swallows down his pang of loss, and pries himself out of bed to go find Charles. 

The King is seated at his private desk, wrapped in his padded dressing gown, shuffling through his many, many papers. 

“Good - well, still morning, just.” Charles turns his head. The friendly smile falls off his face to be replaced by…something else, when he realizes Erik is naked, or nearly so, bare toes curling against the carpet. Erik smiles back, uncertainly. He considers stretching, but dismisses it as too obvious. 

“Majesty,” he says, carefully, and Charles’s face re-animates itself into something recognizable and affable. 

Erik finds his cushion by the fire and crouches to sit on it. The warmth of the fire is good on his naked skin. Charles’s eyes follow his movements as if fixed to him.

“Erik.” The king speaks quietly. “Scott’s bringing food, shortly; I assume you’re as hungry as I am.”

Erik bobs his head. “Yes, Majesty,” he says again. He can’t get the feel of Charles’ skin under his hand, the ridged scars on his back, out of his mind.

Charles’ lips twist ruefully as he follows Erik’s thoughts.

“Legacy of my Uncle the Regent. I’m still not sure how much of it was his genuine personal frustration with me, and how much he hoped I’d get a fever or an infection.” Erik gapes. To want the King’s - to want Charles’ death? How could this man have wanted that? 

“It’s why dear Uncle Kurt spends his time quietly on his country estates.” Charles smiles, sharply. “One of the reasons Cain is troublesome” he adds. “My Court is not a place for him,” he finishes, finally.

“Good,” Erik says, equally firmly. Charles looks away.

After a pause, he says quietly, “I’m sorry about this morning. I - we were both tired last night. I’m sorry I didn’t think about waking up like - that.”

“I’m not,” Erik says, unthinking and honest, and blushes as the King’s eyes widen.

“Ah.” Charles fiddles with the sash of his dressing gown. “Well.” He breathes in. Erik does too. 

“Clothes!” the King says briskly a little later. Erik blinks.

“I’m not that cold.” He isn’t. The fire is very warm.

“Ah, n-not for now. For the reception,” the King says. “My sister is returning to court after her mourning year; and so--” 

“You want me there?” Erik blurts out, surprised. Although it’s customary to be attended at larger parties by a body servant, often outrageously garbed, Charles has dressed Erik like his liveried free servants, and asked very little of him, apart from allowing his assistance in dressing and sending him out to spar with Logan. 

The King nods.

“Please,” he says. “Cain - my cousin; he didn’t intend for you or I to be made happy by gifting you to me, and I fully intend to rub his nose in the fact that he didn’t get what he wants.” Erik blinks. His silence seems to worry Charles, because he goes on to ask, tentatively.

“I - that is, I know I haven’t been - I can’t manumit you yet but--” 

“I’m not - I’m not unhappy.” Erik hurries to reassure him and realizes, as he speaks, it’s the truth. “Majesty.”

Charles winces, faintly.

“I--” Erik breaks off. He can’t put into words the differences between belonging to Charles, and all his previous masters. He just can’t. He’s been pain-free, shame-free, fed and housed and-- 

He’s not had to be dead to survive, not had to stifle himself in order to keep breathing. Not here. 

Erik looks helplessly at the King. He can’t find the words for anything in the tangle of surprised, wary contentment, frustration and comfort that living here gives him. Something in his silence or perhaps Charles’ telepathy conveys his feelings, for the King’s smile widens and warms.

“I’m glad,” is all Charles says aloud, before returning to his theme. “So, yes, we’re going to show off, if you’re amenable--”

“Show off?” Erik feels a breath of unease. Charles hurries to reassure him.

“I want - I’d like them to believe I can make you happy, and keep you, ah…”

“Obedient?” Erik asks, without rancor. It’s not news.

“Ah, without me being--” The King fumbles for words.

“Influenced by me,” Erik finishes for him. Charles looks at him gratefully.

“Something like that.” 

“Who’d believe you didn’t do anything you didn’t want?” Erik tilts his head, puzzled. “Or let yourself be distracted from your duties and responsibilities? Don’t they know you?”

“Not as well as you, apparently.” The King’s cheeks pinken.

“Could know you better?” Erik offers, faintly teasing, and breathes a sigh of relief when Charles laughs. 

“Essentially, my first order to you still stands,” the King says, softly. _Practically the only order._ Erik realizes, suddenly. How did he miss that? “You can ignore anyone else’s orders.”

“So, I’m allowed to be rude?” he asks, to cover that. Charles shakes his head.

“Not rude, but - yourself.” He coughs, slightly. “Mine is the only voice you need to listen to.”

“Just yours,” Erik says, with some satisfaction. Charles glances at him.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is likely the last chapter until mid Jan; between work, Christmas, new year and a wedding in the family; I'm like to be a tad busy for a while. Have a joyful season, and may your next year be happy and blessed, or at least bearably better than last year!
> 
> :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik gets dressed and makes a move. 
> 
>  
> 
> (In which the author indulges her fascination with clothes.)

The fire is warm, and this is the finest shirt he’s ever worn, but Erik would still like to be wearing a little more. The tailor hasn’t yet delivered the trousers and tunic he’s to wear at tonight’s reception, which is being held to welcome Princess Raven back to her brother’s court after her mourning year. The trews he’s got on are not concealing much. 

“What’s she like?” Erik pulls at the collar of his shirt as he asks. Lady Moira tuts under her breath.

“Stop that,” she scolds mildly. “Who? Princess Raven?” Erik nods. Lady Moira looks away.

“Hard to say.” She idly rearranges the neck of Erik’s shirt as she talks. He sighs, and lets her. 

Lady Moira likes things just so, and she’s kind. She made this shirt herself, just to be certain Erik would have a shirt he could be comfortable in as well as one that was smart enough for a formal Court event.

“She was a wild little thing as a girl - not that she much more now - but to be married and a mother and then a widow in three years? Maybe she’s quietened down a bit.” 

“A mother?” Erik shifts slightly, turning to the fire.

“Prince Kurt,” Moira says. “Blue as she is, but he doesn’t shift his body - he jumps.”

“As a baby?” Erik winces, he doesn’t want to imagine the amount of trouble a ‘porting child could get into. Or be. 

“Does she - how does she get along with the--” Erik tries to phrase it carefully.

“She and Charles have always loved each other, but there’s sometimes been a lot of shouting and refusals to talk to each other and running off to the country sulking.” Moira smiles faintly, reminiscing. “Or worse.” 

“Worse?” Erik worries at his lip, wondering if any of the… shouting will spill over onto him, and then he bites deeper, chiding himself for thinking a Princess would even notice a bodyservant. The Lady Moira puts a finger to her lips, and eases Erik’s lip out from between his teeth, so quickly and gently that he scarcely realizes she’s touching his face until she’s stopped.

“Sometimes it’s fun to watch,” Lady Moira admits. “There.” She tilts her head, looking at the lay of the cloth over his chest. “You’re not wearing any jewelry.”

“It’s not - I never liked it.” Erik looks away. “My-my talent.” He drops his voice. He’s so accustomed to keeping things secret, when he can. “Metal alloys - cheap ones - they’re not, not comfortable.” 

Lady Moira nods. Someone taps, hesitantly, at the door.

“H-hello?”

“Come in, Alex.” Lady Moira says, and Alex, the tailor, scurries in.

“I didn’t mean to keep you hanging about, sir,” Alex says. 

With a start, Erik realizes the _sir_ is aimed at him.

“That’s fine,” he says hastily, as the tailor brandishes the finest pair of trousers he’s ever seen at him. “I - are those--?”

“Of course they’re for you!” Moira says. Erik takes the trousers, carefully. 

They’re a deep charcoal grey in colour, made of some kind of butter-soft smooth leather, and they probably cost more than Erik himself. He glances around at the interested, friendly faces of the Lady Moira and Alex and turns slightly towards the wall. He strips off his trews quickly, before slipping the trousers on over his smallclothes. 

He has to wriggle a bit to get them on properly, but they are perfectly comfortable. They stop mid-shin, so there are probably boots somewhere, too. The trouser buttons are metal. Steel, no muddy alloys or jarring potmetal here. 

The trousers cling slightly, but the leather is supple and strong - Erik tests this by bending and flexing, and finds he is not restricted in his movements at all.

“Good?” Alex asks, a thread of relief in his voice. Erik smiles at him, and Alex sags slightly before handing him the tunic. 

It’s more of a doublet than a tunic, really, but the important thing isn’t the name. It’s the look of the thing. Charcoal-grey velvet, with silver - solid silver - buttons, and no embroidery at all. If the trousers were worth more than Erik was; this would buy about three of him - and he wasn’t cheap. Only Alex’s excited, nervous face convinces him that he’s really meant to wear all this. 

Erik slips his arms into the sleeves and begins to close the intricate buttons marching down the left side of his chest. Lady Moira _hmms_ her approval.

“Some of your best work yet, Alex,” She murmurs as she looks Erik up and down once more.

Erik ignores her, rolling his shoulders, testing out the full range of movement the tunic permits him, and is pleased to see he’s not restricted in any way. Just like with the trousers. These clothes allow him to move as he wishes; without fear of damaging the garments the King has chosen for him, and without discomfort.

And yet they look so fine.

“I-- Thank you.” Erik mutters awkwardly. The tailor grins.

“Oh, no, thank ” he says, twitching a a stray thread off one of Erik's shoulders. “They see you wearing this tonight; they know it was me dresses all the King's household. My name is _made_ , man!”

“Indeed!” The King's voice cuts through the room, and Erik turns, drawn by it. Charles leans in the doorway, smiling crookedly. He is alone, and Erik frowns. A king should always have attendants.

Charles' usual affability appears shadowed by something Erik can't quite identify. He begins to kneel, but stops at Charles' head shake. Moira and Alex blink at each other, pointedly.

“I have your boots here.” Charles shakes them at Erik cheerfully.

He hands them to Erik, who notes without surprise that they match the trousers and tunic for elegance and comfort: dark leather, soft as sin and thick as butter. At Charles' nod, he bends and draws them on. They fit perfectly, meeting his shorter trousers mid shin.

Charles looks him up and down, and there is something like awe, and also hunger, in his eyes. Erik has to fight not to stare as he sees himself reflected in Charles' gaze. 

Abruptly, Erik blinks. Somehow, he had not noticed Alex and Moira leaving, and now he and the King are alone.

“The toes-” he begins, startled. Charles grins as he steps towards Erik.

“The metal lining was Logan's idea. Extra weapon. For you, I mean.” He puts out a hand, lightly touching the fine velvet of Erik's sleeve. Erik steps towards him, drawn again by his King's attention.

“I - metal at my feet--” Erik starts, and stops helplessly. The King - Charles has given him so much, in so short a time. He can't - he has no words, not for this. Dumbly, he takes the final step, and presses his mouth to Charles'.

Charles hesitates, and Erik would swear he is about to start kissing back; but then his lips stiffen under Erik's, and his hands rise to Erik's chest.

“No, Erik.” Gently but firmly, he pushes Erik away.

“I--” Erik says. Charles shakes his head, ruefully. A wave of frustration rises in Erik. “This is - I was, I would say yes.”

Charles frowns. He rubs at his hair.

“I - yes, yes, you were.” he starts and then looks away. “But, Erik.” His gaze is so _earnest,_ Erik thinks, irritated. “I'm not sure you're able to say no, not--”

“Is that your order, Majesty?” Erik is pleased he can keep his voice calm and level.

“I - for now.” Charles says, a little unhappily. Erik doesn't understand him at all.

“And is ‘No’ always going to be your order to me?” Erik pushes on, half stunned at his own daring.

“It is an order. For now.” Charles sighs. “It's not - you are very lovely, Erik. But being able to say yes, and not - that's not the same as being able to say no. Not the same thing as saying yes.”

“Will it ever change?” Erik blinks and tries not to gulp, nervously, and Charles frowns.

“I - when, if I think you know you _can_ say no to me.” he says, slowly. “Without fear, in freedom.”

“I don't understand.” Erik doesn't mean to sound plaintive. Charles rests his hands on Erik's shoulders, reassuringly, although he has to stretch slightly to do so. Erik sighs and lets his head sag, submissively.

“I know.” the King sighs. “But you will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaaack! I have a couple more chapters processing, and my sister is getting maaarrrrrrriiied and I may be over excited.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the ballroom, Erik and Charles share some thoughts. Oh, and Tony Stark wriggles his way into YET ANOTHER of my XMFC fics. Sigh.

The ballroom is hot, crowded and nearly airless. Charles gazes down with faint envy at Erik, seated on the cool marble steps below his throne. Not only is the man wearing no robes of state; he is lolling in an attitude of indolent satisfaction that must be infuriating the stiffly correct courtiers as much as it attracts them. Charles has to keep his posture regal and kingly at all times; it’s practically second nature now, but still. 

In his shining grey velvet, close-fitting and severe a cut as the tailor used, Erik looks like a royal blade, beautifully sheathed and waiting patiently for use. Erik glances up at him and Charles smiles. Or perhaps a panther, Charles muses. He shifts discreetly in his seat. There’s a quiet ripple of comments - the crowd hasn’t missed that by-play. 

None of them can have Erik, Charles thinks. They can look, and they can want - and he feels all that wanting, not all of it unpleasant - but Erik’s body, Erik himself is not for the likes of them. Of course, Erik’s not for Charles, either, despite the confused tangle of desire and affection that blooms in him every time he thinks about Charles, as Charles is all too aware. 

Charles _will_ be a good man, somehow. However appealing Erik and his thoughts are, Charles will not touch either. The shadows of fear, anxiety and the memories of pain that deepen in Erik’s mind when he becomes aware of his feelings, or Charles’s proximity, do help with that.

Charles would rather lose a hand than darken those shadows further. Erik has survived so much; and he is starting to flourish. Soon he’ll be ready to be a free soul again. Charles can’t be selfish, can’t risk hurting a man so vulnerable and so strong. Besides, it will hurt when Erik leaves; and Charles rather hopes it will hurt less if they part with goodwill but without too much close affection. 

“Ah, Tony.” Charles greets his good friend with a fairly well concealed relief. “Can I prevail upon you to lead my sister in the opening dance?” He glances about, vaguely. “She’s bound to be here soon.”

“Yes,” The Lord of Stark says, abruptly. He stares at Charles then, glancing at Erik, who leans against Charles’s knee with the lazy lethal grace of a currently full predator. 

Charles frowns faintly. Something’s wrong; this is a large, large social gathering, but Tony’s not displaying his smooth social face at all. He looks… almost angry.

“What’s wrong, Tony?” Charles asks.

“You know, I really thought you were different, Charlie.” Tony’s tone is curt and his shoulders are stiff. 

Erik sits up at the dark look that crosses Tony’s face. Charles puts out a hand and runs his fingers soothingly through Erik’s hair; and he subsides back to his seat at Charles’ feet. He looks, questioningly, at Tony.

“Thought you didn’t go in for all this slavery bullshit,” Tony explains. Erik tenses and his hands curl into fists. 

“Calmly,” Charles reminds them all. “The world is watching.” Erik adjusts his posture meekly. Charles can tell the meekness is a show, but apparently Tony and Charles’ courtiers can’t, judging by Tony’s frown and the pleased murmur from the crowd. 

“You gonna punish him if he doesn’t play nice?” Tony snaps at Charles, and Charles has to fight back a grin. Dear Tony; always so stubbornly insisting he’s no kind of hero, no kind of a good man. And yet, always so protective of those he thinks need it; so helpful to Raven during her year of seclusion. 

“Tony; if you know Erik is--” Charles begins smoothly enough, but Tony interrupts.

“Like I said, I thought better of you.” Tony’s eyes are dark and his mouth is a thin bitter line.

“Lord Cain gave me to his Majesty,” Erik says, softly. “The King has been - has been very kind to me.”

“I’m sure you think that,” Tony says to him, gently. “But, you know, it’s all about where you start from, kindness.” 

Erik looks adorably puzzled. It would be funny, if it didn’t say so much about his experience of life as a slave. Charles clears his throat. He doesn’t want to risk a serious breach of protocol; and he can explain everything to Tony in a little while. Raven has already heard and approved enthusiastically of Charles’s accidental acquisition of a bodyservant, and his ensuing plans for Erik’s liberation. 

“Erik: Tony disapproves of slavery. His disapproval is of my behavior in owning you, not of you,” Charles says, dryly.

“Oh.” Erik leans against Charles a little harder. Charles smiles at him again, and is almost dazzled by the quick, complicit grin he receives in return. He turns to Tony, who’s looking thoughtful. 

“And, Tony, you know I treat my dear cousin’s… gifts with all the respect they require.” He raises an eyebrow, and Tony grins.

“Just had to check.” He leans towards Erik and mock-whispers, confidentially. “I always thought Charles was the best man I knew. I’d hate to think I was wrong about that. Or anything really.” Erik eyes him, faintly wary. Tony winks. 

“Are you dancing with me, or with your ego, Tony?” Raven sweeps up in a magnificent wave of silk and velvet and attendants.

“Please; as if my ego is as pretty as you, Highness.” Tony smoothly bows and puts out a hand. Charles nods his formal permission. 

Raven darts a look at Charles that promises he’ll pay for that, however necessary a formality it is, and curtsies to her brother in a swirl of skirts before departing with her newly acquired partner to open the dancing. Tony catches the implications and mimes a wince of fear at his King.

“You’ll get to meet her less formally later,” Charles says to Erik, who nods. 

Charles detects a faint air of uncertainty in Erik and goes on. “She’ll love you.”

“Thought that wasn’t allowed.” A faint smirk tugs the corner of Erik’s lips. “Majesty.”

“Merely _loving_ you is not forbidden; certainly not the way Raven will love you,” Charles says, soft-voiced. _As a sister,_ he adds, mind to mind. Erik’s smirk deepens briefly. 

_I’m sorry this is all so boring,_ the King continues, silently. _But I have to be on display for quite some time yet, and--_

 _I like being here. With you._ Erik’s lips twitch with the effort not to speak his thoughts aloud.

_The floor’s not very comfortable,_ Charles thinks apologetically, dispensing mechanical smiles and commonplace words to the courtiers who want to be seen speaking to the King. 

None of them really see Erik; he ignores them in return. They are blind fools for the most part; but Charles knows his duties and obligations.

 _They can’t touch you._ Charles promises the man at his feet, a little wildly. _They can’t hurt you._ Erik looks up at him again, steel-coloured eyes enigmatic. _I won’t let them._ Erik is worth protecting, Charles knows. Worth caring for. 

_I know._ Erik thinks, placid, and Charles blinks at the mingling of trust in Charles’ protection and Erik’s growing self-confidence layered under that thought. They twine together, blooming under the sun of Erik’s King’s regard.

 _You’re here,_ Erik says, and Charles realizes his feelings might have leaked a little. _I’m here. We can look out for each other, like Logan said._

“Oh, he did, did he?” Charles says absently, aloud. His eyes follow his sister and Tony as they spin across the floor. Tony says something, quick and sharp, and Raven laughs, low and delighted.

“I like the colour of her dress,” Erik says, carefully.

“Alex again.” Charles smiles. “He’s gifted.” Erik smoothes a hand down his own doublet, and nods. 

It is a beautiful dress, a shade greyer than Raven’s own vivid blue skin, and cut plainly, as befits a years-widow and mother of a small child; but the richly figured silk brocade bodice and the extravagant amount of material in the velvet skirts are worthy of a Princess. The Princess that Raven truly is, not just the Court doll she’s currently pretending to be. 

“Unfortunately my robes of state are traditional; I can’t change the design,” Charles mourns. 

“Could change what you wore under them.” Erik watches Charles’ flushed face. “If it’s too warm for you. Majesty.” He doesn’t smirk; but Charles catches the implication.

“Might be a little, ah, drafty, don’t you think?” he murmurs, delighted at Erik’s willingness to tease, even under the weight of so many eyes. 

“I’m sure there are many who would leap at a chance to keep you warm, sire,” Erik says, sly. He stands gracefully. “But for now - may I bring you some cool wine?”

“Please.” Charles nods permission, and Erik departs on his self-imposed quest for refreshments. _Thank you,_ he tells Erik’s elegant back, gratefully. 

“It’s my pleasure to serve, Majesty,” Erik says aloud, and seems not to notice the approving nods and whispers from some of the courtiers. They think the King has broken Erik in and trained him very skillfully indeed. Charles feels faintly sick. How could they think this of him? 

_It’s only acting!_ Charles thinks at Erik, quickly, and gets the impression of a suppressed laugh.

 _I should have said; It’s my pleasure to serve **you** , Charles._ Erik’s mental tone warms at Charles’ name, and Charles has to suppress another fidget. He can’t do anything about the blush creeping across his face, though.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ball continues. Cain makes a move. Erik reacts. As does Charles...

Erik did not expect to enjoy himself tonight, but he is.

On the surface of things, this is no different from attending any of his masters at a social gathering. Erik’s function here is to make everyone in the room aware of just how wealthy and lucky Charles is as well, to own such a fine, fine ornament as Erik. It’s his role to make Charles look strong through his obedience; commanding through his command of another.

But, as with every other aspect of his life with the King, it’s completely different from anything Erik has ever known. Firstly; Charles has turned Erik’s obedience, his _service_ into a private joke between them. Erik is not submitting to another’s whims so much as he is playing along with Charles’ deception of his court. 

It is astonishing, Erik thinks, leaning back against Charles’s leg, how much closer that seems to bring them to each other. 

Secondly; Erik has never worn clothes so fine. A quick glance at the crowd and really, the only thing that marks Erik out as a bodyservant, as the King’s property, is his position at Charles’ feet. And he cannot resent something that keeps him so close to his King, creating a tight circle between themselves and the greedily watching world. 

Thirdly; Erik can see the glances sliding over his body, the heated whispers, but at Charles’ side, as the King’s man, he knows no one will harass him or try to touch him with anything other than their eyes. Eyes aren’t so bad. 

And if anyone tries to touch him with more, Erik has the power - thanks to Logan - and the permission - thanks to Charles - to _stop them._

He’s never been able to do that before, not ever. Even if the master who owned him had told Erik to reserve himself to that man’s exclusive use, there was always the chance that someone might try to force him, or say Erik offered himself, or… Erik knows if that happens, Charles’ mind-reading will tell him Erik is speaking the truth, and he will not punish him for it. Not here or anywhere else. 

Not Charles, who holds Erik’s loyalty all the more strongly because he refuses to command him. 

A new lordling approaches, and at first Erik is suspicious of this dark-haired, bearded man, because he doesn’t seem to like Erik very much. That’s fine, Erik doesn’t like him, but he has no right to criticize the King over his treatment of Erik, not in front of Erik’s face. Who is he to sneer at Charles, at Erik? 

Erik doesn’t understand, even after Charles explains, that Tony doesn’t like slavery, same as Charles, and had thought Charles was holding Erik against his will. Maybe even being cruel to him. The remark about kindness enrages him. Does this Tony Stark think Erik is stupid, unable to recognize kindness when he experiences it? Does he think Charles could ever be anything less than kind? 

How can this man believe he knows Charles at all, let alone think of himself as an old friend, if he’s prepared to think this little of him? 

The Princess, Charles’s sister sweeps up then, and carries Lord Stark away. Erik decides to like her for that alone. He doesn’t quite know what to do with the King’s comments that his sister will love Erik, too. So he retreats, into the careful teasing he’s learnt Charles so loves to hear from him, and that Erik has leant he so loves to do. At least, with Charles. 

Teasing, laughter, and affection - Erik would give Charles anything he wanted, now that he knows him. Now that he knows he can trust him. He would give Charles _everything_ he was, but all Charles will take from Erik’s hands is this: a little wry warmth and the secret complicity of a shared smile.

Charles is uncomfortable, now, so Erik decides it’s time for a distraction, and heads off in search of some wine, and possibly a light bite or two. Charles never will pay attention to food or drink unless it’s pressed on him. Charles is Erik’s to look after, now, though and so Erik prowls off to hunt down something that will tempt and refresh him. 

People give way before him, out of respect or caution for Erik’s relationship to the King, or perhaps for himself, just a little. Logan has taught him how to walk with menace, albeit unintentionally. It’s yet another refreshing change. Previously people backed away out of scorn, or pride, not wanting to get too close to a bodyservant, not wanting to risk touching a slave. 

Erik holds himself a little straighter, and does not - quite - preen at the look in people’s eyes as he passes. He knows he looks good. In his velvet and leather, in his body’s new way of walking, Erik is decorative and he is deadly and he is Charles’. And everybody knows it, having seen him there at Charles’ feet. Having seen Charles ruffle his hair, smile at him, talk to him. 

Little Scott is scurrying about, wide-eyed at all the glitter and pomp surrounding him. He beams when he sees Erik and hurries towards him. “Can I get you anything, sir?”]

Erik blinks at that and decides to ignore the title, for now. “Wine. For the King.” He smiles at the boy, who grins back. “And food, a few things.”

“Be right back!” Scott scampers off. Erik leans against the nearest wall with one shoulder to wait, surveying the crowd discreetly. More people are dancing now, and this corner of the ballroom is quiet. Charles looks beautiful, so dignified and poised, so far away on his throne. 

“There you are.” Erik knows that voice. 

His guts turn cold as Lord Cain Marko appears out of nowhere, leering at him. Erik squares his shoulders and reminds himself that his former master cannot hurt him, not now that he is Charles’.

“You look very well.” Cain says, almost idly, but his eyes are small and hot and angry. Dangerous eyes. Erik wonders where Scott has got to. 

“Look at me when I talk!” Lord Cain snaps, and Erik’s gaze jerks towards him. Cain moves closer. Erik lifts his chin. He’s taller than Cain.

“Has my royal cousin let you spoil so quickly?” Cain asks, and Erik says nothing. It seems safest. Cain puts out a hand and Erik straightens away from Cain’s greedy touch. 

Charles - the King said, no one else was to touch him. He said so, almost the first thing he ever said to Erik was that no one else was allowed to use him. He said it was an order. He said it. Erik finds himself clinging to that memory somewhat desperately, as Cain looms ever closer to him. The wall at his back is no longer a support, it’s a trap. 

“Oh, he _has._ ” Cain’s tone, never pleasant, turns ugly with gloating. “Such a shame. Still, I’m sure I can fix it.” Erik freezes, memories of past pain shrieking warnings in his head. “Come here. I won’t spoil your pretty new wrappings - I’ll just use your mouth.”

“No.” Erik says, very softly, and Cain’s eyes go hard. He grabs at Erik’s arm. Erik steps back.

“Now, Erik. Come with me.” Cain says. “Or I’ll have you do it here, so everyone can see you serving on your knees, can see what you are.” 

“No.” Erik says, louder. “I’m the King’s now. He ordered--“

“I know you’re the King’s.” Cain pants. “Why d’you think - you _will--_ ”

“I won’t. Not with you,” Erik hisses, as Cain seizes his arms. “ _No!_ ” One or two idle courtiers glance over. Something inside Erik snaps. 

There’s a roaring sound in his head. 

Erik moves, then, quick and hard and ruthless, just as Logan taught him. He surfaces from the roaring when someone cries out, to discover he has twisted out of Lord Cain’s grip, and forced the King’s cousin to his knees. Cain’s face is the colour of dough. Erik squeezes the fat wrist in his grasp and feels the man’s bones grind together. 

It feels so, so satisfying. Erik’s heart sings. He is allowed to defend himself Charles said so, and said it was an order. Erik said no, and he was able to stop the man when he didn’t listen, and he is strong now, strong and fierce and--

 _“Guards!”_ Cain yells. Beneath the fear and pain he seems very pleased. 

The dancing music jangles to a stop. Charles sits bolt upright and then leaps to his feet.

“Seize him!” Cain seems too pleased, for a man forced to kneel by a bodyservant in front of half the Court. A shiver of trepidation grips at Erik’s heart.

“Seize who, bub?” Logan sidles over, apparently relaxed, but his eyes are sharp. He’s wearing his uniform as Commander of the King’s bodyguard. 

Erik gulps. What has he _done?_ He releases Cain’s arm, but the damage is done.

“This slave attacked me!” Cain crows it as he wobbles his way to his feet.

“Did he now?” Logan asks.

“I--” Erik says, nearly desperate. “The King ordered me.” 

“I doubt my cousin ordered you to _attack_ me, you - you - animal. Scum!” Cain gloats. Erik drops his gaze to his boots as Logan frowns.

“What order?”

“He - No one was to touch me, but him. No one was to use me. And, I tried to tell m’lord but - he - he wouldn’t…” Erik tells his boots. 

“Huh. Anyone see what happened?” Logan looks around.

“You doubt my word?” Cain scowls thunderously. There’s a general murmuring and glancing away - clearly no one wants to speak up on behalf of a bodyservant, not if it will cause them trouble with the King's own cousin.

“I did.” Lord Tony Stark speaks from behind Logan’s shoulder. Erik stares at him. 

“And I,” adds the Princess. She gives Erik a friendly smile. Erik blinks.

“And, my Lord, my Lady?” Logan smiles at them, just a little.

“Looks like Lord Cain was… confused, when Erik here told him no.” Tony claps a hand on Erik’s shoulder, easing him away from the wall. 

“Is there. A problem?” Charles’ voice drops into the quiet pause, soft, and very, very dangerous. As soon as Erik has space to move in, Tony’s hand falls away; he tucks the princess’s arm in his. Cain sputters. Logan’s eyes go bleak and cold. Erik automatically falls to one knee. Charles moves to stand just behind him, protectively. 

Erik’s racing pulse begins to slow. Charles is here.

 _Erik? Are you alright?_ Charles asks in his head. It’s all Erik can do not to kiss him, right then. Charles blinks.

 _He tried. To, to. Use me. I stopped him._ Erik turns to look up at his King. Charles’ eyes go dark. 

“Your slave--” Cain starts, puffed up and blustering. Charles silences him with one raised hand.

“Cousin.” Charles says, sweetly. “I fear you are unwell.”

“You’re not wrong!” Cain snaps, rubbing his arm. “Why--”

“I was afraid of that.” Charles says, still sweet. “The strain of Court life is too much for you at this time.” 

_”What?_ ”

“You appear to be suffering from memory lapses.” Charles says, and his dulcet tone is the most threatening thing Erik has ever heard. “You gave me this man.” His hand comes to rest on Erik’s shoulder. “And then you try to give him an order.” Cain gulps.

“I-I--” Cain babbles. 

He cannot talk his way out of this. Too many people saw him approach the bodyservant, too many people know Charles ordered Erik to serve the King alone. Too many people - lickspittles and weaklings all, in Cain’s mind - would want their own bodyservants left alone, too. 

“Please give my regards to my uncle, when you greet him.” Charles says. Cain staggers back. “I care most deeply about your wellbeing, Cousin.” Charles adds. “I’ll make sure you are fully recovered before I invite you back to my Court.”

“But--” Cain bleats.

“Go. Now,” Charles breathes, gently. “For the good of your health.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles doesn't know how he's going to survive the rest of the evening.

Charles has no idea how he’s supposed to make it through the rest of the evening. He’s still angry, even after Cain has been sent packing, and the effort of maintaining his barriers so his mood doesn’t spill out onto the rest of the crowd is making his head hurt. But with Erik at his side - well, at his feet, right now - Charles doesn’t mind. 

He is not just angry, though. There’s a jumble of other feelings he has to repress, so as to sort through them later, privately. Guilt, for one - he promised Erik no one would touch him against his will, or hurt him. Cain went after Erik. Tried to force Erik to serve him. Threatened him. 

Cain wanted to humiliate Charles, so he’d gone after _Erik_ , after giving him into Charles’ care, after hurting him and using him and… Charles sips at his wine, and nibbles on a canapé. He selects another from the plate - a sliver of duck wrapped in light pastry - and offers it to Erik. 

Erik blinks heavy-lidded eyes, gazing almost innocently at Charles. Erik smiles, turns his head, and takes the food from Charles’ hand with his _mouth alone_ , night help him. A shiver goes down the King’s spine, at the touch of Erik’s lips on his fingers. A satisfied twitch tugs at the corner of Erik’s mouth as he chews and swallows. 

Charles coughs and sips more wine. He senses, rather than sees Erik’s smile widen at his reaction. Erik has become more subtle in how he offers himself, perhaps as he senses how much it takes from Charles to keep refusing. But the satisfaction he takes from Charles’ reactions seem so important to him, Charles doesn’t have the heart to put an end to them. 

Erik fought back. Charles replays the memory. Erik had moved like a striking hawk, swift and controlled and utterly, blindingly beautiful in that moment. He’d forced Cain to his knees in the full gaze of Charles’ courtiers. The humiliation had been perfect; even if Charles hadn’t banished his cousin from Court, it’s unlikely Cain would have been able to show his face without mockery for weeks. 

Erik tips his head and rests it on Charles’ leg. Charles runs his hand through Erik’s hair and wonders why the man likes keeping it so short. It’s pleasant under his fingertips, though. Erik blinks, slowly, and Charles tracks the movement of his eyelashes, half-hypnotized. 

Erik is very, very distracting. Not only the new clothes, but in the new way he moves now - the way he is still. Before the confrontation with Cain, Charles thought of his bodyservant as a blade, or a great cat, but now he finds Erik more raptor-like - the stillness, the piercing gaze. The sudden speed and beauty flaring out when he moves. 

He’s not the only one engaged in a re-evaluation of his bodyservant. The quiet murmurs about the King’s man, the speculative gazes and whispered jokes from the courtiers blissfully unaware they can be heard, have turned careful and distant. Erik is no weak toy; however obedient he is to Charles, the King is the only man who commands him, and now they all know that. 

It would make Charles love Erik more, but he’s rather ruefully aware that that doesn’t seem to be possible any more. Erik leans back trustingly against his legs, warm and almost relaxed and _there_. Charles has to swallow. Only his life-long training in being on display keeps him seated, looking suitably regal and distant on his throne. 

“What deep thoughts occupy your mind tonight, brother?” Raven leans across from her own display perch - a slightly smaller throne - and grins at him.

“Nothing much you could call deep,” Charles says, lightly. “Thank you, by the way.”

“Whatever for?”

Charles tips his head towards Erik, still sitting trustingly at his feet. 

“Oh, I simply said what I saw.” Raven waves it off.

“Thank you, Princess.” Erik turns very slightly toward Raven. Her eyes soften as she looks at him.

“Raven.” Gently, she corrects him. 

“Thank you, Princess Raven.” Erik says, and Raven catches herself before she frowns at him. They are all in the public eye, and Erik is still - for now - only a slave bodyservant.

 _But only for now._ Charles thinks at her, and she nods, as regal as her brother, and considerably stronger willed, in said brother's opinion

Above Erik’s head, the King and his sister begin a discussion about - Erik thinks - her son’s latest achievements. He concentrates on looking decorative and content. He is more than somewhat content, but the events of the night - or their implications - are so huge he can’t process them at all. 

Erik used physical force on a highborn freeman, and not in defense of his master. He said no, he was able to say no, and when it wasn’t listened to, he was able to stop the man. And he is not to be punished. Charles has said so. Lord Cain is dismissed from Court. A King and a Princess supported a bodyservant’s version of events. 

It’s all very confusing. Lord Stark raises a glass to the three of them from the back of the room, his dark eyes shining with alcohol and hilarity.

“Does Lord Stark come to Court very often?” Erik asks. Charles represses a twinge of jealousy.

“Sometimes,” Raven says brightly. “He’s a bit of a tinkerer - an inventor,” she clarifies at Erik’s blank look. 

“And he prefers his workshops to his ancestral house in the city.” Charles murmurs, “Raven, I think he’s asking you to dance again.” From the gestures Tony’s using it seems pretty clear that that is so.

“Me or his good captain.” Raven smiles, gesturing at a blond well-muscled man standing between them and Lord Stark. 

Tony’s waving intensifies.

“I think he’s waving at you, Princess Raven.” Erik says, carefully. He’s proved right three minutes later, when Tony, very slightly drunk, wavers up to the throne and says, winking at Erik as he does.

“Majesty. Can I steal one of your companions?” He gestures wildly. “They’re both… so very pretty.” 

The blond Captain frowns a little, as Erik almost unconsciously pushes himself backwards, towards Charles.

“Both my companions, as you term them--” Charles hastily softens his tone; he doesn’t want to sound so cold or angry in public. “--belong to themselves. Ask _them_.” 

Tony looks at Erik far more sharply than someone apparently so drunk should be able to, and turns to Raven. Erik relaxes, and so does Charles.

“Princess? Would you honour me with this dance?” Raven laughs and stands by way of a reply.

Erik breathes out a sigh of relief when they’ve departed to make up the next set.

“Do you like dancing?” Charles asks, watching Raven twirl between Lord Stark and Captain Rogers. 

“I… I never have done, Majesty,” Erik says, slowly. “But it looks enjoyable.”

Light-heartedly, Charles suggests, “Maybe you can learn.” 

“Would you teach me?” Erik surprises himself by asking. “I - since… There are things I like learning, now. Here.” 

“Erik, I would be delighted.” Charles says, mostly to see Erik’s smile again.

“Thank you, Majesty. But can we… the first lessons--”

“In private?” Charles is unsurprised. Erik nods.

“I don’t like - all the eyes.” Erik says, a little lamely, and looks a bit ashamed.

“I’ve never enjoyed doing things for the first time in public.” Charles agrees. “Most thing, anyway.” 

He bounces his knee slightly, knocking against Erik’s shoulder. Erik leans back again, reassuring himself he’s not alone under the curious gazes of Charles’ courtiers. With the warmth of the King’s legs along his back and supporting his spine, it’s easy enough to know.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dancing, metaphorical and literal.
> 
> :D

It’s late. The strange mood of the evening still shivers across Erik’s skin as he closes the door behind the King’s escort. The lamps burn brightly - someone must have trimmed and filled them while the room was empty. The night sky beyond the glass is deep, empty black, reflecting the many small flames like the best of mirrors.

Charles himself has shed his robes of state and moved to stand by the fire, one hand resting on the mantelpiece, smiling. Erik’s heart thumps against his ribs. Erik wants the evening to continue, but he’s not quite sure how to prolong the mood.

“That was… did you enjoy yourself this evening, Majesty?”

Charles’ smile softens as he turns and regards Erik, warmly. “Parts of it were… inspiring,” he says, thoughtfully.

“Inspiring, Majesty?” Erik puts a hand up to the collar of his fine velvet doublet and unfastens the top three buttons. Charles pushes himself away from the mantelpiece. A few steps bring him to stand in front of Erik. He looks up at his bodyservant, blue eyes dark and thoughtful.

“You were.” He smiles. “Inspiring, I mean.”

“I…” A look of uncertainty crosses Erik’s face. Charles hates it. He puts a hand out, awkwardly, to grasp Erik’s forearm.

“Erik. You are one of the strongest men I know.” Quietly, willing the words to reach him, willing Erik to see the truth of them in Charles’ eyes. “This evening was only a further proof of that.”

Erik’s lips part, but he doesn’t say anything. Charles wonders what he’s thinking, but doesn’t risk finding out. Erik’s hand rises to the King’s clasp on his arm. Charles lightens his grip, not wanting to hold Erik against his will, but Erik places his hand over Charles’, keeping the King’s touch on him. Charles quirks a crooked little smile at him.

Trusting that Charles has understood, Erik removes the restraining hand, and places it, very daringly, on Charles’s waist. The silk brocade is smooth and rich under his fingers. Charles blinks, slowly.

“Erik…?” Cautiously, as if handling a half-fledged hawk.

“You… you did say you wouldn’t mind teaching me. To dance.” Erik says, low and soft. The King nods.

“I did. Now?” Charles cocks his head. Erik swallows.

Then, resolutely and clear-eyed, feeling the warmth of Charles’ waist under the curve of his palm, Erik lifts his chin. “If you would, Majesty.”

“You’ll have to imaging the music.” Erik can’t believe Charles is doing this. He can’t believe _he_ is doing this. But Charles keeps smiling as he takes a step back, pulling Erik after him.

“I think you might find it easier to follow my lead,” Charles says. Erik nods, wordless. “Just for the first dance or so.” Charles steps lightly, sweeping confidently through the steps of a waltz. Erik stumbles after him, and tries not to tread on the King’s feet too often.

Charles pauses to catch his breath, and looks up, laughing, at Erik. Erik smiles very faintly in reply. He doesn’t let go, keeping Charles close to him. Charles opens his mouth to say something; he’s not quite sure what, because Erik bends his head down and gently kisses all the words out of Charles’ head.

Then he stops, watching Charles warily. Charles tries, and fails, not to lick his lips.

“Erik,” he says, quietly. “Erik, I--”

“Charles.” Erik blinks. It’s the first time he’s ever called the King by name alone. “You said: not until you believed I could say no as well as yes.” Charles nods, lower lip caught between his teeth, eyes bright and watchful. “I… said no. Tonight. To Cain.”

“You did.” Charles is seized again by how beautiful Erik had looked during that moment. “You certainly did.”

He moves then, laying a hand on Erik’s chest. Erik lets him, waiting for Charles’s judgment. Charles feels the rich nap of the velvet, and under it the warmth of the man wearing it and the quick thump of Erik’s pulse - fast, but not fear-fast. He takes a deep breath.

Erik must read the answer on Charles’ face, because he kisses him again, and as Charles finally responds with a tentative and gentle press of his lips, Erik kisses him yet again. Things become heated as the world shrinks to just the two of them, mouths and hands and shared warmth in the golden lamplight of the King’s private chambers.

Erik steps back, just enough to be grateful for the wall supporting him. His knees are doing something strange. Charles crowds into him, and Erik gasps as the King slots a sturdy leg between Erik’s thighs. Charles chuckles, low and wicked, hands suddenly busy with Erik’s doublet and shirt.

“Can I…” Erik’s hands flutter over Charles’ jacket. The King smiles, sea-coloured eyes dark with desire and sparkling with mischief.

“Please.” Then he pinches Erik’s right nipple, and Erik gasps again, fumbling with the elaborate lacing of Charles’ shirt. Charles’ alabaster skin glows, beautiful in the lamplight.

Erik’s head spins. So very many masters, so very many ways he’s been used before, but this… this isn’t use. This is all so new, even to him. Especially to him.

“I’d hope so,” Charles murmurs into Erik’s mouth, before kissing him again. The King’s clever fingers dip under Erik’s waistband, and Erik bucks up into his touch.

Erik grabs at Charles’ shoulders, stares wide-eyed as the King frees him from his smallclothes, trousers sliding softly down his thighs. Shivering, he closes his eyes while Charles coaxes him to full hardness. 

Charles’ grip is strong without being harsh, and he handles every part of Erik, mind and cock and heart as if Erik is something – some _one_ \- incredibly precious and valuable.

“All right?” Charles’ voice has gone husky. His thumb rubs over the sensitive wet head and Erik bites down on a whine. He’s dripping with need. Charles spits into his hand.

“I… Charles-- _Please_.” He’s almost babbling.

“You are so beautiful.” Charles begins to stroke him steadily, firm and _good_. “Do you have any idea how you looked, bringing Cain down like that?”

“I... ah! Know how it felt.” Erik gasps, or thinks he does.

“Tell me,” Charles says, invitingly.

“Felt go- _oh_ -od.” Erik admits. Charles twists a wrist, and Erik nearly screams at the sensation.

“And?” Unrelenting, Charles strokes Erik as he wavers and gasps and tries to keep enough of his mind to answer.

“I felt-- Oh, night – please--” Erik gulps frantically, nearly gone with it.

“You never have to beg, Erik. Just tell me.” Charles grins. His hands speed up.

“Felt powerful.” Erik’s chest heaves as he tries to get enough air into his lungs to talk.

 _And?_ Charles remains gently implacable, inside his head and out.

 _I-I felt **alive!**_ Charles’ astonished delight cuts into him like lightning. Erik’s mind whites out.

He sobs as his climax arrives. The pleasure storms through every part of him, and Erik cries out as he comes, spilling warm and wet over his King’s hands. His knees give out entirely, and he slides down the wall, feet tangled in his trousers, staring up at Charles in dazed wonder. Charles smiles down at him. There’s a faint breath of worry in that smile.

Erik surges upwards and kisses the nearest part of Charles he can reach, which turns out to be his belly, smooth and pale, just above the waistband of his fine trousers.

“I-- I’m alright.” He presses a kiss into his King’s stomach. “I--” He gropes for Charles’s hands, and when they give themselves into his clasp, squeezes them reassuringly. “Please let me give you this.”

“I don’t, don’t want to take--” Charles says, voice thin.

“Can’t take if I’m giving.” Murmuring to Charles’ bellybutton, Erik watches the skin ripple and twitch.

“But this is--”

“Sharing.” Erik says it firmly. Charles gulps.

“I’d never forgive myself if you got hurt.” Fingers come to rest gently on Erik’s shoulders. “I--”

“You didn’t,” Erik assures him, breathless against his belly, thighs still trembling slightly with aftershocks. “You wouldn’t.” Charles’ short laugh stutters into a gasp when Erik noses at his erection through his trousers. “Can I…?”

“Erik, I don’t want--” Charles’s voice jerks, fractures as Erik breathes warm air through the fine silk covering him. “--to remind you of any – oh, _night_ \- thing--”

“You can’t.” Erik leans back on his heels, and solemnly looks Charles in the eye. “Never known anything, anyone like you before.” Charles’ eyes grow wet. He blinks.

Erik shuffles sideways, still on his knees, and shifts Charles until his back is to the wall. Erik drapes Charles’ hands over his own head, and moves to unfasten his King’s trousers.

“Erik. Are you sure?” Charles asks at the crunch point, one last chance, one last attempt at taking care of him.

Erik grins up at him, locking their eyes together. He answers Charles by sucking as much of Charles’s cock into his mouth as he can.

Charles’ fingers clench and slide through his hair. Erik amuses himself by switching between suckling and tonguing Charles’ slit, trying to work out which gets the best reaction. He rolls the tender and precious weight of Charles’ balls between his fingers. Erik hums contentedly as he feels Charles fighting not to pull his head closer.

Charles lets out a strangled groan.

 _I - oh, Erik,_ Charles babbles, in his head. _Feels wonderful-amazing-exquisite -oh!_ Erik pins Charles’s hips to the wall as he starts to buck, and Charles moans. It’s the best music Erik’s heard in a long time.

 _You,_ Charles says. _**You.**_

Erik sends back his delighted satisfaction at being able to take Charles to pieces like this. 

Charles’ response is nothing but wordless, astonished pleasure.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, else where...

The long light of morning falls through the breakfast room silently. Neither of the two men occupying it seem to care for the beautiful walls, the fine paintings or ornaments around them, choosing instead to glower into their plates.

“An’ then - then!” Cain slurs, thickly. Kurt frowns in faint disgust. It's morning, and his coarse lump of a son is already - or perhaps still - drunk. And he is still complaining about being sent off with a flea in his ear for acting the fool in public, a month after the fact.

“He threw me out of Court. That bast--” Cain whines.

“You're speaking of your King, boy!” Kurt rasps. “You'll be respectful of the Crown in my house, or I can throw you out, too!” How had he been cursed with such a fool of a son? He'd tried to beat him into shape, same as his royal cousin, but the polishing that should have come after clearly hadn’t taken.

Cain stares at his father for a long moment. Once, that rasp would have been an ear-shattering shout, but now he has grown old, and Cain fears - _respects_ \- his father as the stronger man no longer. Kurt's hands shake, now, and his hair is thin and grey. He couldn't hit anyone any more, not like he used to hit Cain... and his long dead mother, and Charlie.

“Like you respected him every time you beat him bloody, _Lord Regent? _” Cain sneers. His father's face tightens.__

__“Boy needed toughening.” He looks away, out of the window to the gently rolling estate beyond the gardens. “And I said, respect the crown, not the wearer.”]_ _

__[Cain gulps down more wine. “Maybe if you hadn't, we might not both be stuck here,” he grumbles._ _

__“Heh. Blame yourself for your own foolishness, boy.” Kurt smirked. “Should have left the bodyservant alone.”_ _

__“The bodyservant.” Cain seethes. “He said no! To _me_. I owned him!”_ _

__“And then you gave him away. You know what Charlie was like about his toys; you broke enough of them, before you grew up. Should have thought it through before you gave him another.” Kurt coughs wheezily._ _

__“He looked perfect!” Cain says, irritably. “Taller, older - and he wouldn't break for me; Charlie was never going to be able to do it.”_ _

__Kurt sighs. “I'm not saying it wasn't a workable idea. But it backfired. Accept your losses, boy; you can probably start working on being back at Court in a decade or so.”_ _

__“WHAT?” Cain lurches to his feet, shaking his head._ _

__“Or maybe when I die, if you look sad enough on paper.” Kurt's eyes glint with faintly malicious humour. “You could have some sympathy for me; I'm the one who has to put up with your presence.”_ _

__Cain keeps shaking his head._ _

__“No. No, that's - he can't... I can't be isolated that long.”_ _

__“It's not so bad here,” Kurt says mildly. “You grew up here.”_ _

__“Yeah.” Cain's mouth twists._ _

__“The estate keeps us supplied. There's fine food, hunting--” Kurt looks at the empty glass still clenched in his son's hand. “--diversions.”_ _

__“We just can't go to Court.”_ _

__“For a decade or so.”_ _

__“He won't do that. Not over--”_ _

__“Trying to poach his current favourite toy?” His father shoots him a dry look. “Care to make a bet?”_ _

__“No!” Cain snaps, as he all but staggers from the room, in search of more wine. “I gotta - there has to be some way out of here.”_ _

__His father's cackling laughter follows him down the hall._ _

__

__Here, in the orderly chaos of an army encampment, on the border between kingdoms, there is little sunshine. The grass is trampled, mud everywhere. The soldiers and servants and prisoners don't seem to notice, moving in their well-organised circuits with the ease of practice and experience._ _

__In a slightly damp tent in the center of the camp, General Shaw lays his knife and fork down on his neatly emptied plate, and snorts at the latest news from the capital. Breakfast doesn't usually come with this much entertainment, even for him._ _

__“Something amusing you can share with us, in your dispatches there, sir?” Janos speaks smoothly, eyes on his commanding officer. The general leans back, looks up from his papers and smiles, wryly._ _

__“The boy king has discovered his balls, it seems.” He flicks a hand at the paper. “I thought it would never happen.”_ _

__“Sir?” Janos tilts his head at it but is far too wise to risk looking like he's trying to read confidential information. Shaw pushes his plate away and folds his arms on the table. Janos recognises the signs. The man wants to talk. Janos leans forwards._ _

__“He's finally sent his cousin packing, off to the ancestral estates,” Shaw confides to his attentive audience._ _

__“To keep his father company?” Janos guesses, there. But it's well known, when the king came to formal power, as well as informal, he dismissed his uncle-the-former-regent from the court. Permanently._ _

__“The old fool must be almost senile by now.” The general shrugs. “He didn't put up much of a fight when it came to the crunch, anyway. Now, the son, I'd have thought he had more... ambition.” Janos nods._ _

__Shaw rambles on. “But, turns out, it was a bodyservant sparked it all off.” He quirks an eyebrow, still deeply amused._ _

__“A bodyservant?” Janos asks, stiffly. “I thought the King didn't like slavery; it's about the only thing, you said, that made him a worthwhile--”_ _

__“Oh, I'm not anti slavery - how could I be, with my factories?” The general smiles. “But it was a principle, and I do love a man with one of those.” He exchanges a sly glance with his lieutenant. “And it was a goal that occupied him nicely, these last few years since the Regent lost control of him.”_ _

__“Sir.” Janos observes, neutrally. Safely._ _

__“But now; if he's actually started... noticing that kind of thing, and he's keeping a bodyservant - well.” Shaw stares into the middle distance. “Might make for better distractions. I do love a man with more than one distraction, too.” His grin is wolfish. He briskly claps his hands together. Janos jumps. The general curls a lip at him._ _

__“So. That's decided. Me, I'm returning to Court- “_ _

__“Permanently. Sir?” Janos tries not to gape. His commander has never had much time for court or court flowers before._ _

__“Unlikely. As long as I'm left to get on with what I - what the country needs, I won't have to stay long.” The general begins to fold the papers on his table.]_ _

__“Why go at all, sir?” Janos lingers, hoping to learn a little more. Shaw glances sharply at him before he decides to answer._ _

__“I've been commanding the patrols since before the boy dealt with his uncle. I took my oaths of service to his father and to the regent--” The general shrugs. “I may as well take one to him, too.”_ _

__“Sir.” Janos salutes. “Permission to leave?” His commanding officer waves a lazy salute._ _

__“I'll be leaving Azazel in command. You'll accompany me; pick ten of your best men and be ready to ride first thing the day after tomorrow.”_ _

__“Yes, sir.”_ _

__Once he’s alone, General Shaw doesn't mention his need to evaluate Charles Xavier's rule now that his reign proper has begun. It's more than mere curiosity. Kurt Marko was smart enough to let Sebastian Shaw have his head in matters of the army and defence, and most others, too. In so doing he'd ensured his own survival. Perhaps it's time to see if the King is as smart as his regent was._ _


	15. Chapter 15

The King’s bed is so comfortable, after a morning attempting to hit Logan with sticks and being knocked down four times out of ten. Erik stretches against it and kicks his shoes off. He’s improving. Once, Logan would have had him on his back every time he tried. He’s still not succeeded in getting Erik to the barracks bathing rooms, but then, Erik has access to the King’s personal one, so. 

Erik laces his hands over his stomach and watches tiny silver coins orbit each other over his head. His head aches dully, but nothing like it used to before Charles began to help him. The coins spin happily, singing in and out of the rays of afternoon sunlight falling from the windows.

They fall to the pillow abruptly, unheeded, when the door scrapes open, and Charles staggers in, supported by his sister. Erik rolls off the bed and onto his knees in sheer reflex. Charles is not wearing a coat or jacket, and his sleeves have been rolled back. He’s pale and sweating, too. Erik represses a frown of worry. Raven is much paler than her usual glorious blue. She’s bitten her lip bloody, too. 

“Majesty. Highness.” Erik keeps himself to the formalities around Princess Raven; just because he and the King have been sharing bed pleasures doesn’t actually give him any rank, and in this Court it’s vital he shows he knows that.

“Please get up, we need your help. My brother has been stupid.” Erik rises immediately. 

“I wasn’t being stupid!” Charles glances away as Erik approaches.

“What-?” Erik begins, and is interrupted.

 _“Show him!”_ Raven hisses at her brother as they lurch to the nearest chair. She thumps him forcefully on the shoulder.

“Ow,” says Charles, and then again with more emphasis, as his sister snorts. _”Ow.”_

He waves his left arm at Erik, sheepishly. The unfastened shirtsleeve droops sadly from his elbow. Erik reaches out and, after a pause, touches the King’s arm. He turns the limb gently. Erik sees the characteristic red marks livid against the King’s pale skin at almost exactly the same time he smells the unquestionably familiar odour. He freezes. His nostrils flare and his eyes go wide. 

Punishment cream. 

“What…” Erik gulps down the soaring rage within him. “ _Who did this?_ ” he demands furiously.

“Erik,” Charles says gently, eyes full of wonder. “Erik, it’s all right.” Erik refuses to be calm. No one should hurt Charles, no one should _dare_ to as much as breathe on his King, let alone _this._

“How did this happen? I’ll-I’ll kill them!” Both royal siblings blink at his forcefulness. Erik doesn’t care. 

“He did it to himself, the great fool.” At Raven’s words, Erik’s furious indignation stutters to a brutal stop. “I told him not to, but…”

“You did what? _Why?”_ Erik’s voice and face are full of bewilderment. Charles’ jaw tightens. Erik hastily relaxes the grip on his arm.

“Now he doesn’t know how to make it stop - and I got it all over my fingers trying to wash it off--” 

“You used soap, didn’t you?” Erik asks. “Never use soap! It reacts to the cream and it doesn’t stop the burning.”

“It’s not something I intend to do a second time.” Charles’ eyes are shadowed.

“Shouldn’t have done it _once._ ” Erik mutters, fingers of his other hand hovering over, but not touching, the welts rising on the King’s skin.

“I needed to know for myself.” Charles winces. “How it felt.” 

“About this? You could have guessed. Or asked me.” Erik says, far more curtly than can be courteous.

“I didn’t want to - after last time--” Charles falters, probably not wanting to remind Erik of his fear-induced collapse.

“So you hurt yourself, instead?” Erik shakes his head. He strides to the door. Jerks it open and stares at the guard outside. “Warm milk, quickly,” he demands, impatiently.

The guard gapes at him. Normally Erik takes care to avoid giving free folk anything that even looks like an order. “What?”

“I - the King and the Princess need warm milk, a jugful, and sheep’s wool fat, quick as you can.”

“Warm milk?” Raven echoes him as he turns back from the door.

Erik eyes her. “The alternative remedy is piss--”

Raven interrupts. “It doesn’t matter, what is it?”

Erik blinks, and half smiles. “Piss.” He waits for the penny to drop, heading for the wash room to extract clean towels and a basin. “Not recommended to royalty often?” he teases.

Grinning through the pain, Raven shakes her head. Even Charles smiles weakly.

“Not human urine. I believe one of our ancestors was fond of using a substance that involved horse urine, but not…” he says. Erik snorts to himself.

“Still don’t understand why.” He doesn’t. Why would Charles go chasing pain? “You’re not - not like the burning man. Or the others. Pain doesn’t make you hungry for more of it, yours or--”

“I - it frightened you.” Charles says, voice low. “You.” Raven looks away, hastily smoothing out her expression.

“You put pain cream on yourself because it _frightened me?_ ” Erik’s cheeks flush.

“You - you have been so strong, so--” Charles falters.

“Wasn’t always.” Erik says, to his hands. His guts clench as he remembers. The King’s hand wraps around his arm.

“I just - I wanted to know why it was so bad, before I banned it.” Charles’ eyes are over-bright. Pain or tears, Erik can’t tell. 

It’s not like there’s much difference between them, anyway.

“You’re banning the use of pain cream?” Erik’s heart lurches. _Because of me?_ He doesn’t dare ask it. He can’t say how that makes him feel. Charles, his King, his lover, has the power to ban pain cream, but not the power to set him free. It’s almost funny, but _almost_ is a long way from _is_. 

Raven smiles at the bewilderment on the face of her brother’s lover. He’ll get used to Charles’s flair for the dramatic in time, no doubt.

“Oh, I can’t ban the use,” Charles says. “I couldn’t order my men into every household in the country, or ask for reports of its use or whatever. The populace would never stand for it.” 

“Then what--”

“He’s getting the cream analysed,” Raven says, cheerily. “We’re already sure some of the stuff that makes it has to be imported.”

Erik nods. “Red-flower oil, for a start.”

“Precisely. It grows only overseas; as soon as we have Hank’s list, we can ban the import of such harmful substances, easily.” 

“Much easier way round things.” Charles winces as he smiles. 

There’s a polite tap on the door; Erik hurries over to snatch the warm milk and the jar of sheep-wool fat from the puzzled page. He shuts the door almost in the child’s face, and turns back to his royal patients. They’re both watching him with wide eyes, a little like children. Erik pours the milk into the bowl. 

“Soak your hands in that,” he orders the Princess. “Ah, please, Princess Raven,” he adds, awkwardly. Raven’s eyebrows rise, but she does as requested. Erik soaks one of the cloths in milk, then wipes it gently over the burn marks on Charles’s arm. Charles winces and grits his teeth. Erik bends his head, avoiding the siblings’ gazes, and keeps dipping and wiping. A short silence gathers. 

It’s scattered by Raven. 

“You - you know about this cream,” she observes, her eyes focusing on her fingers, swirling in the milk.

“Most slaves do, Highness. Especially bodyservants,” Erik keeps his voice, if not his face, neutral.

“And this… burning man,” Raven says, studiedly casual, still not looking at Erik. Charles shoots her a warning glance. Raven ignores it. “Was he a-?”

“He took my town. Destroyed everyone, everything,” Erik says, harshly. “He was - he was one of the ones who were hungry for pain, that’s all.” 

No one says anything for a moment. _People who were hungry for pain._ Charles thinks Erik has known too many of them in his life. Erik wipes tenderly at the white and red on Charles’s skin, turning the cloths as he dips and mops.

“Your town?” Charles asks, then.

Erik looks up at him. “You didn’t see that? I said you could look.”

Charles bites back a sharp retort. “I thought - I wasn’t sure if you wanted those memories disturbed. You buried them very deeply.”

Erik blinks. He had? Strange, for the burning man himself - as he had appeared, a terrible, distant figure of smoke and fire - was often in Erik’s thoughts, these days. 

“Is it-?” He looks at the Princess.

“My hands feel much better,” Raven says. “Charles?”

“It’s beginning to feel - well. Less like a hot coal is on my arm, more like a hot coal _was_ on my arm.”

“Good.” Erik nods, satisfied. “Try putting the wool fat on your fingers,” he instructs the Princess. “Um. Princess Raven.” 

Raven laughs as she follows his orders. “Just Raven, please, Erik.”

“I - your Highness, I--”

“It’s all right,” Charles says gently. “My sister has never stood much on ceremony.”

“Not for people I like,” Raven agrees, cheerful and smiling again.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Charles talks Erik to sleep; General Shaw is coming closer.And coming to a decision.

Charles is an _idiot,_ Erik fumes furiously to himself, later, watching his King sleep. Charles’s sleep is peaceful, but there’s a creased line between his brows which Erik fears speaks of persistent pain from the side effects of his pain cream trial. Erik sighs, and keeps to his self-appointed watch. If Charles is going to do that sort of thing, he very clearly needs a keeper.

 _Go to sleep,_ Charles murmurs inside his head a little later. Erik fights down a yawn. Charles is so close to sleep himself, the feel of his words trickling into Erik’s mind is a slow, sleepy buzz. It makes Erik tired. His eyes drift shut. He opens then again. Aloud he says, “I’m alright, Ma—Charles.”

He is. It’s just... Well. After seeing Charles in pain, _Charles_ , his King and his lover, Erik needs to be on guard for a while. People shouldn’t hurt Charles, not even Charles himself. He’ll watch over Charles for a while and then things will be… they’ll matter less.

Charles gives a very tiny snort. 

_We are surrounded by guards, Erik._ Erik’s head gets heavier and his eyes drift shut again. Charles keeps up his steady hypnotic murmur. _Two at the door, another three patrolling the passageways._ Erik jerks his head up. He needs to remain alert. Charles needs to be protected.

“But—” Erik breaks off to yawn. He does worry about Charles; and only recently Charles hurt himself over that damn stupid pain cream. He squeezes Charles a little tighter and rests his chin against his King’s shoulder. But he doesn’t close his eyes. 

If someone comes after Charles, Erik will be ready for them. Charles clearly isn’t good at protecting himself from pain. He might not be any better at protecting himself from anything else.

The King sighs, and winds his arms more firmly around Erik.

 _Three patrols cover the Palace, four more cover the grounds,_ Charles reminds him. _I have scholars and medics coming out of my ears, and then there’s my army; and the General himself is coming to meet me, so that’s more army on the way. I’m well-guarded and safe in the Palace; and even if all that fails, you’re with me. **Go. To. Sleep.**_

There’s no disobeying Charles when his mind takes on that particular tone of command. Erik gives in to the inevitable with a sigh of compliance. He slides down and down into that gently inexorable darkness. As he does, he can feel his King drift back to sleep at his side, fingers curled around Erik’s arm and mind folded snugly around his.   
It’s comforting feeling Charles so close. Feeling him as wound up in Erik as Erik is in Charles.

 

General Shaw looks at the mirror held by his nervous junior and smiles a little, grimly. Then the mirror shakes again.

“Hold it still, man!” he snaps. “How can I check I’m shaved properly if the mirror keeps moving?”

“Well—”

“Oh, get out man, get out. Send the word for Captain Janos. At least he’s no fool.” Shaw bites back further curses. Wouldn’t do for anyone, not even his dog-loyal officers to hear him criticising the King before he takes his oath. If he takes his oath. Sebastian is seriously re-thinking this right now. 

He sighs, stalks over to his chair and sits. He stares at the latest letters from his accountants again. _Who told the man about discipline cream?_ he thinks, angrily. And why would such a principled King actually be disturbed by the one form of inflicting pain and punishment that didn’t actually damage the merchandise? 

Sebastian purses his lips. Of course, someone recently gave the king a bodyservant, but that _can’t_ be behind this sudden discovery. Surely any slave of high enough quality to be given to a king would be bright enough to keep his or her mouth shut about discipline methods that hurt. 

Wouldn’t they? The beauty of the cream was that it could be used repeatedly, and the slave, once the stuff had been washed off, would be fine. Oh, there were always a few who took it too far, and caused nerve damage or madness to their property, but it was much harder to do that with the cream than with, say, a whip. 

Yet now the Crown—undoubtedly driven by the current wearer—was outlawing the import of two of its major components; and had placed a tariff on a third that would price it out of existence very shortly. It was hard to make, and the process accepted very few substitute ingredients. All his early experiments hadn’t been able to find any, anyway.

Shaw cursed again. It wasn’t common knowledge that most of his wealth came from manufacturing and selling discipline cream. His power came from his command of the Army, but his money came from cream. He’d anticipated a slight lessening of income as slavery became more and more restricted in forms and application, as children and other cute-looking groups got their exemptions.

He’d been prepared to sacrifice that much, if abolition kept the King’s nose out of Sebastian’s army, but this—this was too much, and far too fast. Something would have to be done about this. He laid the papers aside and steepled his fingers, calculating strategies, resources and options.

Things had been simpler, during the Regency. The King had been first too young, and then too locked in power struggles with his idiot uncle to pay much attention to details of his rule. Now it seemed as if he was getting his feet under him at last. Briefly, Sebastian regretted he had so little time or patience for women.

If only he’d been able to predict Princess Raven’s widowhood and return! He could have cultivated her friendship, and then, when she returned, she might have needed a hand, and arm to lean on. And with her small son the heir to the throne... 

A new Regency would have to cover the twenty years to Kurt's majority. Long regencies were a risk; witness the amount of work the General had found in keeping the borders strong and quiet during the last one. 

Shaw was fairly confident he could hold the borders for a century, if the country and the Crown gave him his head and kept him supplied. Finding a Regent for Kurt smart enough to see that General Shaw did things his own way would have been a challenge. unless the grieving Princess had been previously courted, unless a few men had been bribed or threatened to say and vote the right way...

But there was no point in chasing after might-have-beens. That Regency was over, those easier times not to return.

Border pacification or enforcement always turned up a crop of workers or land resources for later use. Sebastian had been too canny to actually sell those workers as slaves, unless they were too young to make reliable reports, or could not communicate very well. He wasn’t stupid enough to sell them outKingdom. 

No, selling civilians taken in raids or punitive attacks not ordered by the crown was not a long term solution. It might have brought a quick and easy profit, perhaps, but it was a profit that was also quick and easy to be discovered, too. Sebastian Shaw was a careful man. He could wait, for money, or success.

Instead, he set the least wretched souls to work in the discipline cream manufactory. It was a filthy process, and full of accidents. Free—well, mostly free given what it cost to feed and clothe the workers—labour kept the price low and the profit high. 

And it kept most of them under his control, and dried up any source of whispers against him. He might not be of noble birth, but Sebastian would be damned before anyone called him a slave trader, or a trader of any sort. Sebastian Shaw was a soldier, and a damned good one, too. He deserved a soldier’s honours.

Everything in his life—his titles, his wealth, his power—General Sebastian Shaw had earned. The only thing he’d had at birth had been his brain and his Talent. Whatever else he had lacked as a young man—power, or wealth, strength or polish—he had now. He had since made of himself, or grown it, or taken it from those too weak and foolish to keep it.

And if this boy, this King, who had never earned his high position, simply been lucky enough to have been born to the right parents, thought that he could simply wave a hand and make laws that disrupted Sebastian’s life like this? That threatened his standing, his resources? He’d have to learn better. The General smiled grimly to himself. It was not, he wagered, a lesson the King would enjoy. 

Or, unless he was a very fast learner, survive.

But with a little common sense, he would never push Sebastian that far. Probably he was only making a gesture, as he had when he’d taken in the slave brats from across the Kingdom. Idly, Shaw made a mental note to find out where they’d been sequestered. It wouldn’t do to be less than fully aware of the location of all the boy’s weak spots.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast for three, before the fireworks really start. :)

The sunlight streams in through the tall clear-glassed windows, throwing squares of gold across the tapestry-hung walls and darkly polished floor of the breakfast room. Erik shifts a little in his chair and casts covert glances at the three people sitting at the table with him. 

“Pass the butter, please.” The butter is at Erik’s elbow, along with honey, preserved fruits and a basket of bread. The whole table is loaded with a royal abundance of food. Erik represses a snort as he passes the butter. The King is still trying to feed him up, it seems.

Erik doesn’t tell him the true reasons for his apparently light appetite. He’s still a little uneasy about sitting and eating with non-slaves who aren’t Charles. It doesn’t make things any easier when said non-slaves are the King of Genosha’s sister and her small son, current heir-apparent to Charles’s crown.

It is not very easy, eating as a free man with other free people, outside of Charles’s private chambers. But Raven and her brother are both adamant that Erik should feel “like one of the family,” whatever that means. Erik hasn’t felt like part of a family, in the sense of belonging to one, as opposed to being owned by one, since the days of his ignorance, growing up in his home town.

However. That was the past. Here and now, Erik can’t control his feelings, but he can control his behaviour. And that means breakfasting with the royal siblings and being waited on, instead of serving. Even if he usually has to go find Logan and eat a second breakfast because he was too tense to eat much at the first.

Intellectually, he _knows_ that he is allowed—supposed—to behave as much like a free-born as possible, that Charles prefers it. It’s more pleasant, too. Still, a tiny trained part of him anxiously awaits the punishment owed him for daring to sit at a table with his master and his master’s family.

Even though Charles is not, refuses to be, any kind of master to him. Refuses to use him, to allow others to use him; feeds Erik well and clothes him finely and refuses, categorically, to so much as _think_ about punishing Erik in the ways he has been disciplined before.

Even though Erik loves and trusts Charles, and knows Charles is fond of him.

Erik shakes his head slightly, dismissing the thought before Charles catches it and starts blushing again. Even now, if they are outside of the safety of Charles’s chambers, if other people are there, part of Erik wants to kneel, to give in and obey, rather than be hurt any more.

Erik hates that part of himself.

Charles, probably catching that wash of uncertainty, smiles at him. Erik smiles back, crookedly. He can hardly blame Charles for wanting a free man—or someone as close to free as he can get—for a lover, rather than a slave. Raven goes back to buttering Kurt’s bread. Kurt grins the wide baby smile of a toddler with food in his future.

“Many plans for the day, dear sister?” Charles wipes his mouth with his napkin. Erik represses a faint pang of disappointment; he’d been hoping to do that for Charles. Alas.

“Why, yes, dear brother.” Raven’s voice is sweet enough to make jam with. “A circle of the Court ladies has invited me to drink tea and plan some embroidery projects, and later I and the ambassadors’ wives will watch our children playing together.” She bites into her bread and honey somewhat viciously.

Charles winces.

 _Shouldn’t have asked if you didn’t want the answer._ Erik carefully does not grin as he thinks at Charles. Raven makes no secret of her dissatisfaction with Court life, when she is among people—Charles and their core of personal servants, really—who she trusts.

 _Hush, you._ But there’s no real anger or irritation in Charles’s tone. The footman steps in and begins to carry away the remains of the hot dishes. He makes no recognisable facial expression, but even Erik can tell he’s hoping to divert the conversation between the royal couple.

Erik isn’t entirely sure why Raven finds Court life so restrictive, when, after all, she’d spent her mourning year in full retirement in the countryside somewhere. And before that, two quiet years married to Prince Darkholme, far away from the Court again. He nibbles on his bread, thoughtful.

Perhaps, Erik muses, Princess Raven had enjoyed her mourning year because there’d been more practical things to do in that gentle countryside retreat than here. Already he’s heard her talk of missing her ability to ride out, to visit the poor, to go to a market herself without a huge fanfare.

Given some of the comments she’s passed at other times, Raven _enjoys_ cooking. Another thing she’ll never be able to do as Princess Royal and mother of the heir. Erik can sympathise. Being trapped in a role is a hard thing, even if that role isn’t slavery.

“I’m sorry, Raven,” Charles says softly once the footman leaves. “I know Court life isn’t your cup of tea, but—”

Raven snorts. “No. No it really isn’t. But you asked, and it’s an admirable goal. I can hardly say no.”

“And it’s lovely to get to see Kurt growing up.” Charles smiles at Kurt, who only giggles and waves a spoon in the direction of the honey jar.

“No more honey,” Raven says, firmly. Kurt’s smile drops. He looks pleadingly at Charles, who shakes his head, and then at Erik.

“Pease, rik?” he lisps at last, eyes wide. Charles and Raven break off their debate to look on with amused, approving eyes.

Erik doesn’t know quite what to do. His training insists that he can’t disobey a direct order, even from a child, yet he also can’t anger the boy’s mother. And he knows that no freeman would worry so, which makes things worse. Charles frowns, faintly.

“Your mother says no, little prince,” Erik says, at last, safely. Kurt pouts. Raven laughs and takes the honey pot away, moving it out of Kurt’s eyeline.

Erik breathes out a sigh of relief.

 _You don’t need to think about saying no to him; he’s only a baby,_ Charles says in Erik’s head as his sister straightens Kurt’s tunic.

 _I know,_ Erik says, equally silently. _It’s just… habit._ He shrugs. _Being careful, I mean._

Charles doesn’t say anything, but a faint air of sorrow emanates from him; sorrow at what Erik has had to endure; how it’s hurt him. Shaped him.

“Don’t.” Erik says it aloud. “Don’t. I’m not—I’m not broken.”

“He really isn’t, brother mine.” Raven flashes Erik a warm smile of approval as she stands. He doesn’t know how to respond to that at all. Charles looks over at Erik and smiles. The morning sunlight makes his eyes extra blue, but, Erik thinks, it can’t make Charles’s eyes any warmer when they look at him.

Erik shifts, uncomfortable under the weight of so much attention and approval. A maid steps forwards to take the weight of the baby; still smiling, Raven shakes her head, settling Kurt on her hip like any farmwife might.

“I have him.” She turns to Charles. “Well, I’m away to prepare some letters before I drink tea. Enjoy your audience, brother.” And she’s gone, Kurt waving good-bye.

“Audience?” Erik cocks his head. Usually he’s as aware as Charles (thanks to Logan’s habits of information sharing) of the King’s duties on any given day.

“General Shaw and ten of his officers have arrived.” Charles sighs. “Looks like the old man of war has decided to see if I meet with his approval. He’s been patrolling the borders for years, it seems. Keeping us safe.”

“Is his approval necessary?” Erik’s voice is wry. He’s never seen his King seek approval—or permission—for anything much.

“Well… He _does_ have direct command over the standing army.” Charles smiles, lightly. “So it’s helpful.”

“Can’t you fire him?” Erik pushes back his chair and moves to pulls back Charles’s.

“Of course, I can, but he’s a wealthy, powerful man, with the loyalty of his soldiers,” Charles says as he stands. “Who are also Genoshan citizens. I can’t ignore that; not without more cause than his approval, or lack therof, of me.”

“Ah.” A neutral noise, Erik knows, another cautious response, but Charles grins at him as if he hears Erik’s unstated opinion of people who might be foolish or hateful enough to disapprove of _his_ king.

“Anyway, come along. Shouldn’t take long and afterwards we can—well, you can, anyway, I haven’t a hope—beat up Logan a few times.” Charles heads for the door at a cheerful pace.

Erik smiles as he turns to follow Charles out of the breakfast parlour. He gives his velvet tunic a little tug, to settle it over his shoulders. Secretly, he’s a little proud of the fact that he can score an occasional hit on the King’s best bodyguard. The metal toecaps in his boots sing as he prowls after Charles.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Undercurrents. Developments. Shaw comes to make his oath to the King.

They’re in the small audience chamber today, Erik notes as he follows Charles. The throne in this room barely deserves the name; it’s just an over-large chair two steps up from the floor. There are no hangings on the plastered walls, only a beautiful fresco of the Immanent Grove. 

The smooth, smooth marble flagstones are chilly under his knees, but Charles doesn't like to see Erik kneel in public. Fortunately someone—Erik’s not sure who—has already placed a low, padded stool at Charles's feet, so Erik arranges himself as decoratively as he can.

It was thoughtful of the stool placer to do that. The steps in the larger audience chambers and the throne room are deep enough that sitting on them is comfortable; here they’re shallow enough he’d likely get cramp if he stayed at Charles’s feet too long, without his little stool.

Erik wonders if the chamber was chosen because Charles wants the General to feel close, importantly private with the King, or aware of the difference in rank between them—a small room means he cannot bring much of an entourage. It’s more likely the first, Erik muses, as he sits cheerfully at Charles’s right knee. 

The General of Genosha’s armies is a powerful man in his own right, it wouldn’t do to annoy him unnecessarily. Charles shifts until Erik leans back far enough for his spine to touch his King’s leg from knee to ankle. Charles stills as Erik makes contact, and Erik knows if he were wearing his full robes of state, he’d be able to fuss with them. 

It’s probably this lack of five or six extra layers of velvet and silk that’s making him twitchy. Erik rubs the back of his head against Charles' thigh. In his head he can feel Charles grin at him. Charles does love playing games with his courtier’s perceptions, at times. Mostly gentle games to keep himself awake during boring meetings and evenings, but it keeps Charles’s social skills sharp. 

Erik approves of Charles keeping himself sharp, even when Erik has to play along with him. Then again, playing along with others’ expectations is pretty much one of the major reasons Erik’s alive and ungelded. At least Charles doesn’t require anything more from him than acting the obedient bodyservant.

There are already courtiers gathered in the room, sipping wines and murmuring discreetly. Their gazes slide over Erik carefully; wary of being caught eyeing the King’s body servant. Thanks to Charles’s behaviour over Cain Marko, he’s earned himself a name for being quite possessive where Erik’s concerned. Not that Erik minds. 

Although he now has the permission, thanks to Charles, and the ability, thanks to Logan, to say no and enforce that no if it is ignored, Erik is wary about causing trouble or pain to more nobles. Erik answers only to the King, and he doesn’t want to look as if he’s exploiting that—and therefore Charles—in any way. 

Plus, Erik’s reputation as a beautifully dangerous creature barely leashed by the King’s whim amuses Charles. 

There’s a stir as the general enters followed by just two people. Not much of an entourage, even for this chamber. He measures the room with his bright sharp eyes in one glance. Charles sits a little straighter, and with his best politely welcoming smile, watches the general of his armies approach.

Sebastian Shaw does not falter, or seem unsure in the slightest. 

He approaches Charles and bows in one easy, almost amused, gesture. He does not kneel, and Charles does not need to ask him to rise. Erik knows he’s never served, been used by or displayed to General Shaw before, so he cannot think of where the vague sense of recognition and dread is coming from. 

Sebastian Shaw is not the man Erik was expecting him to be, not at all. 

He’s younger, for a start. Young indeed for any general, let alone a man who rose to that position before Charles had achieved his majority. Erik had vaguely expected some weather-beaten greybeard, not this tanned reptilian man with harsh cheekbones and greedy eyes. 

“Majesty,” Shaw says, smiling, smiling, easy and assured. His eyes flick over Erik and lift away with no visible emotion in them at all. The glance cuts deeper than it should. Erik wants to hide and to stand guard between Shaw and his King, simultaneously. Charles rests a hand on his shoulder as he leans forwards. 

“General,” Charles says, confidently. “It’s good to see you again.” 

“Last time I saw you, you were just a boy,” Shaw says, amused. “Majesty,” he adds. 

Charles does not invite him to call him by his first name. Erik notices that, quietly.

“I think we have all changed much since that day.” Charles smiles. “Except for you; you seem as young as ever. What’s your secret?” 

The courtiers mutter amongst themselves, sipping wine and waiting for someone to make the first mistake, display a weakness or do something worthy of gossip and destruction. It’s what they do. Erik pays them very little attention; they can’t hurt him except through Charles. 

“Oh, you could say it’s a gift.” Shaw shrugs the line of questioning delicately away. Charles lets him. Sebastian continues, formally: “I have come to lay my hands between yours, to offer service and loyalty in return for protection and shelter.” 

Charles straightens into formality, opening his hands so Shaw can approach. Erik slides sideways on the steps, even though half-buried instincts are screaming at him to defend Charles, and not let the other man so close to him. Shaw kneels like other men rule, lordly and authoritative. He lays his hands between Charles’s open palms. 

“I swear: loyalty and service, to you, my King, as the commander of your armies, until such time as I die, or you release me.” Shaw’s eyes find Erik again. Too close. Much, much too close. Erik represses a shudder. 

“I hear your words and accept your vow.” Charles says smoothly, as if he hasn’t seen the way Shaw is fascinated by the King’s bodyservant. “Until such time as you reject it, or you die, I offer you the protection of my realm and the shelter of my rule.” Shaw stands, and bows, smiling. Charles’s hand drifts to Erik’s shoulder. 

As he steps away, the General’s eyes come back to Erik. Erik doesn’t move. Charles’s hand tightens very slightly. 

“I see you have… become a man since last we met, my King.” His smile is close to insulting. 

“Given that I was perhaps ten when I last saw you, Shaw, I’d think it would be a good thing I’d grown up since, wouldn’t you?” Charles’s eyes are bright and his smile is sharp. 

“If only you can be sure your head grew along with your heart,” Shaw laughs. 

“I don’t quite follow.” Charles says, amiably blank. Erik leans back just a little, pressing against Charles’s leg. Charles is not alone, here. Erik wants—needs—to remind him of that. 

“Your, ah, interest in slave-children…” How Shaw manages to sound both indulgent and dismissive at the same time, Erik does not know. 

“There are no slave children in Genosha.” Charles says it quietly, but firmly. “Not now.” 

“Precisely my point,” Shaw says, smooth and expansive now the formalities are done with. “It’s sheer sentimentality; my king. What does the world want or need with yet another bunch of homeless foundling brats? Better they’re employed, if they can be made useful as slaves.” 

“The world? Perhaps nothing.” Charles says, still quietly. “But these children are not homeless or useless. They are Genoshan citizens, now. They have much to offer their county and their countryfolk.” His eyes glint. 

Shaw looks at him and, wisely, does not answer. 

Charles smiles then and changes the subject, calling on a courtier, the Lady Irene, to deliver the poetry she’s been waiting to recite. Shaw steps away and takes a glass of wine from one of his attendants without looking. 

The Lady Irene’s poetry is, as ever, elegantly spare and wickedly funny. 

_Are you all right?_ Charles asks Erik part-way through a sonnet that will ensure one man will never return to court until he’s married with a hopeful family, if ever. If you’re abusive to servants in front of a court poet you once sought to grope, what can you expect? 

_Yes, you?_ Erik flicks back quickly. 

_Of course._ Charles seems to be deflected by Erik’s query, and he doesn’t pursue Erik’s mental state further. 

The courtiers are laughing and clapping. The Lady Irene smiles and curtseys. General Shaw pushes through the crowd to congratulate her, but she turns away, as if by accident, before he can greet her. Charles accepts a glass of wine, sips from it, and then lowers the glass, tilting it so Erik can drink from it. 

_It’s odd._ Charles speaks silently, outwardly smiling as he returns the empty glass to the page who stands waiting. _He seemed to be looking at you. Have you-?_ And there his query falters, as it runs up against Charles’s iron refusal to ask Erik about any of his past. 

The general throws back his head to laugh, splashed gold and bright by the sunlight falling from the high windows. He gestures broadly with his nearly full wine glass. Behind him, his two attendants wait, watchful and silent. 

_Have I met him before? I—I don’t know,_ Erik says. _I don’t know._

Sometimes reaching back into the past is hard for Erik. It hurts, whether the memories he’s pursuing are bad or good. Charles knows this, and he does not press. 

_More wine?_ Charles asks delicately instead. He signals the page. 

_No, thanks._ Erik didn’t have much breakfast, and he doesn’t want to be drunk before noon. 

_Well. Maybe after your sparring with Logan._ Charles says agreeably. _How’s your knife work coming?_


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik has a nightmare. Erik remembers where he knows General Shaw from. Charles is... not as helpful as he could be.

Erik is dreaming. He remembers this, in patches, as the story unfolds.

_Erik wrapped an arm around his mother as they huddled with the few survivors in the town square. The soldiers had torn through his home like dogs with a tender piece of meat._

_And he did not know why._

_His father, like the other men of the town, was butchered before his youthful eye… was it only yesterday?_

_Yesterday, yes. The burning man, the man in command had ridden in, with all his soldiers. They had claimed were looking for rebels and bandits._

_**What rebels?** young Erik thought, bewildered. No one had rebelled here; no one had supported any bandits. Who ever noticed them long enough to try and order them about or steal from them in the first place? He opened his mouth to tell the man this—and his mother slapped him into silence._

_Shocked wordless, Erik watched the man on the horse backhand the town headman when he claimed they were a loyal town. His face was twisted with sharp lines of ambition and greedy anger._

_**“Quiet, love. Don’t get us noticed. Everything will be alright.”** His mother’s words begged forgiveness for the violent blow._

_Erik loved her; and he soon saw that speaking up would have got him into trouble. He hugged her, a silent forgiveness in the midst of this growing terror. He wished his talent with metal was strong enough to make the men all leave; but it was not. Erik could sharpen edges and dull them, move cutlery and make fine jewellery, but nothing more._

_The town headman dropped in the dirt street, bloodied and silent. The commander on the horse uncoiled a long whip and struck at the other men, including Erik’s father. He demanded they give up the rebels, offer more tribute, bow the knee to him. None of them said a word, and for a shining moment Erik was proud of his father. He had no Talent, but he was strong._

_Then the man on the horse drew his sword. Bored eyes stared down at the terrified, obedient townsfolk, and their little bordertown. **“Burn it,”** he told his soldiers, flat-voiced. **“Burn it down.”**_

_And they did._

_That was yesterday. Now the town is devastated. Some of the buildings still smoulder; many others are already ash. The place is awash with blood and bloody death and corpses._

_The soldiers chased down people hiding from their bright swords and cruel fire. A strange sorting process occurred: infants and adults were killed, young girls and boys penned in a corner. Again they demanded the rebels and bandits give themselves up. None of the survivors knew what they were talking about._

_A young man, young enough to have escaped the slaughter yesterday, declares that he’ll do anything, tell them anything, if they leave his brothers and sisters alone. He begs on his knees, dirt and tears mingling with the blood on his face._

_They laugh at him. Spear him in the street and leave him to bleed out._

_They are pulling Erik away from his mother now._

Erik?

_The burning man is watching. He looks bored. Erik knows what happens next. He knows, because this is a dream, a dream he’s had over and over again. His hands are small, a child’s hands. He can’t hold on, not even with the metal there. They are pulling Erik away, and the moment stretches unbearably on and on and on._

Erik, wake up. You’re—you’re dreaming.

_The soldiers laugh, coarsely, and Erik’s mother is still madly promising him that all will be well, everything will be alright, Erik. And Erik knows—remembers—what they’ll do to his mother once he’s not there to hold her. What they’ll do to him. Knows what awaits him are years of hell and pointless agony, knows—_

**ERIK!**

Erik jolts awake at the mental shout, gasping and sweating and suddenly absolutely certain.

 _Erik, are you—_ Charles’s voice is soft and concerned. Erik ploughs right through the question, burning—ha!—with the need to speak and be heard, to make sure he can voice this hard-won memory before wakefulness and the daily world steal it away again.

“I know who he is.” Erik clenches a fist in his own hair. “Oh gods. I know him, I know who he is.”

“What?” Charles shoulders himself half upright and reaches out. Erik barely notices the hand on his shoulder.

“The—the burning man.” Erik swallows. “I-I was dreaming and I saw him. I saw him; I know who he is. It’s—he’s the General.”

“What?” Charles starts easing Erik’s fingers open, before he yanks his own hair out. “Erik, you’re shaking.”

“The man—the one who came to my—my town; before. Before I was.” He stops. Looks at Charles, who is looking back at him with soft concern. “I knew I recognised General Shaw.” Charles frowns. “When my town was taken; he was… he was the one commanding.”

“ _General Shaw_ destroyed your town?” Charles’s voice is sharp as he leans over and lights the lamp from the slow-burning hour candle. Erik pays the tone of his question no mind, too caught up in the horror of memory.

“I’m sure of it.” Erik bows his head, closes his eyes. “They kept asking about rebels, bandits. But we—we were a small town, we didn’t—we were loyal. They didn’t listen. I think—They only took the children; everyone else died.”

“But Shaw—he’s the commander of the armies. Why would he-?”

“They sold us.” Erik stares, unseeing. “To trainers. We made him a good profit, they said. I remember that.”

“Erik.” Charles puts an arm around him. “You’re still shivering.”

“It’s the dream; I’ll be alright.” Erik draws a breath. He is not there anymore; the past is the past and he survived it. Now he knows who the burning man is, where he is. Now he knows he can avenge his parents, his town. His life. Soon, he promises himself.

Charles sits upright.

“Erik, I know you believe in what you say, but I have to ask. Are you _sure_ General Shaw rode against your town, and for no reason?”

“ _No reason?_ Erik gapes. “There’d never be a reason! How can you even ask?”

Charles blinks at the mixture of rage and pain in Erik’s words and face, before continuing very carefully.

“Because I need to know if I’m charging him with war crimes or treason, misuse of army resources for personal gain or—” If Shaw is guilty—and Erik seems so very sure that Charles is more than half convinced himself—then this ugly little mess needs to be examined before the court, swept into the light so that every foul reason or motive can be exposed.

“Charging him?” Erik echoes Charles for a moment, bewildered. “I—you don’t need to bother with all that, Charles. I’m going to kill him.” He smiles, faintly. He will. Shaw will die, and by Erik’s own hand. His dream of vengeance had faded lately, living in the Court. But now it seems in a fair way to be made real. It’s almost too good to be true.

Charles catches his breath. An instant flicker of thought shows him his Erik, beautiful and deadly, opening Shaw’s throat with a blade and his Talent, _the Talent Charles has been helping him grow_ , bathing in his burning man's blood and damn the consequences.

 _No._ Charles can’t catch back the instant thought or the weight of command behind it. Erik looks at him, betrayed. “I— There needs to be a trial,” he explains awkwardly. “I can’t just execute the commander of my armies on a—on one person’s word.” It would rock the country.

“On the word of a slave,” Erik spits, bitterly. He hadn’t expected this betrayal. Not from Charles.

“No!” Charles says, far too forcefully.

Erik stares at Charles for a long, ringing moment.

Charles sighs. 

It’s not Erik’s slave status so much as it is his bodyservant role. Charles tamps down on his irritation; he can’t expect Erik to be thinking clearly right now. The fact has clearly not occurred to him that if Charles has Shaw killed without a trial, on his bodyservant’s words alone, it will ruin Charles’s reputation in some things and set half his nobles in revolt. 

_Better explain quickly,_ he thinks.

“Only—I can’t sentence him to death without the reasons behind it being very clear. I don’t know why—”

"You can't just _sentence_ him?” Erik hears his voice cracking, distorting like Charles’s agonised expression. Erik breathes in, hard, and keeps talking. “You can’t stop slavery, you can't free me, you can't—what can you do, Charles? I thought you were a king!"

_I thought you were my King!_ Erik doesn’t say it, not aloud, but Charles hears the thought; it’s very clear.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is off hunting, Erik is off balance, and Shaw is making plans...
> 
>  
> 
> Evil ones, probably.

Swords whirl and clash in a disturbingly accurate imitation of conflict. Erik makes what would be a killing thrust, if Logan didn't manage to evade it. Erik misses and wavers, overextended.

“Watch your feet!”

Logan barks the advice a second too late, and Erik cannot evade the return blow. He blocks, but the effort makes him grunt. His foot slips in the sand of the practice ring, and he lurches, going almost to one knee. He recovers his balance in a wildly ungraceful scramble.

Logan takes a step back, and gestures Erik to attack him once more.

“Come on, Erik, _focus_ ,” he says, curtly. “Your head’s all over the place today.”

Erik gives him a bare nod, and they circle each other warily.

Logan flexes his fingers on his sword hilt, waiting and watchful. Between his powers of healing and Erik’s Talent, they’re probably the only people who can practice with live steel like this and not actually kill each other. But with Erik making mistakes like this, the King’s chief bodyguard is being forced to pull his blows, as he’s not sure Erik is focused enough to dull the blade edges before they strike him.

Erik’s distraction is costing him a valuable sparring session. Logan sighs, and tilts his head.

“You know you’re better than this,” he tells Erik sharply. “You know it, now show me!”

Erik snarls wordlessly and raises his sword again. They’ve circled round so the sun is behind Logan. Light catches on the blade, glaring into Logan’s eyes and making him blink. For a split second, no more than a few heart beats, he can’t see clearly.

In the bare breath of time his vision is impaired, Erik is on him like a dog on a rabbit. Most of his hard-won fighting form has deserted him, and he’s a few steps away from simply flailing blindly. Logan parries easily at first, but as Erik’s rage intensifies, he has to exert himself to keep from getting stabbed in a few places he doesn’t enjoy healing.

“Calm. Down.” Logan grits out between clenched teeth. “Don’t fight angry.”

Erik doesn’t appear to hear him, attacking relentlessly. Logan jerks his head back just in time to avoid having to regrow half his face. The move leaves him open to Erik’s backslash, which lays open his chest to the bone. Erik freezes for a moment, bloody sword clenched in his grip and face still carved into a vicious snarl.

“Enough!” Logan snaps in tones of absolute command.

Erik drops the sword. Logan clenches his jaws against the cursing he’d like to do, and concentrates on breathing through the pain. There’s another shirt fit only for the rag pile. Least he doesn’t scar.

“Sorry. I. Sorry,” Erik grits out, stooping to pick up his sword. He wipes it clean and sheathes it.

Logan grunts when he can talk again. “Yeah, kid, what’s with you today?” Some of what’s happened he can guess at. He’d wager two bent pins against the crown that Erik’s had an argument with _someone_ , he’s showing all the signs. The question is, who? Charles keeps Erik close, the way he likes. And what would Erik find to argue with Charles over? He’s devoted to the King.

“I—The King and I. We. I was angry.” Erik looks aside. Logan sheathes his own sword. This sounds more serious, if he has found a bone to pick with the King, of all people. Erik takes a deep breath “He—”

“Come on.” Logan seizes Erik by the elbow and briskly marches him off the practice grounds. “I need a beer. So do you.”

“I don’t drink much—” Erik protests a little, but he follows Logan easily enough.

“Beer,” Logan repeats, firmly. He steers Erik back to his quarters, far away from the King and the Court, where things told in confidence have a marginally better chance of remaining secret. He tells the newest recruit to run for two ales. “And don’t drink any of mine!” he yells at the boy’s fleeing form.

Seated opposite Erik, Logan looks the former bodyservant in the eye. “Now,” he asks quietly, “What’s eating you, bub?”

“I.” Erik falters. “You know how I became—what I was, before?”

Logan shakes his head.

“Soldiers.” Erik speaks very softly. “Took my town. Burnt it. Killed all but the children. Sold us.”

Logan nods. “I’ve heard tales.” Many of the slaves he’s come across have similar sad stories. True or not; raiding seems to be a common way of losing one’s freedom.

“I recognised the man in command, and I—I told Charles last night. That he was here in Court.” Erik glares at the wall fiercely.

“Night!” Logan curses. “Who’s the man; when’s the trial?”

Erik frowns silently. Logan’s eyes narrow. Something’s wrong here. Wrong-er.

“He’s been arrested right?” Logan knows Charles. There will be a trial, oh yes. Charles is always protective of his people, and he hates slavery. This will be a fine chance to hammer the message home, through a highly visible public trial. And the death sentence. Likely Charles isn’t going to commute it to a merciful beheading—

“General Shaw,” Erik says, clearly.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Logan says aloud. “Now _there’s_ a fine complication.”

“I—He wants to put him on trial.” Erik’s fingers stray to the hilt of his blade. “I want him _dead_ , and he said—he said, no.”

“He will be.” Logan doesn’t bother pussyfooting around with qualifying the statement with mealy-mouthed cautions about innocent til proven guilty. Erik looks like he’s had to swallow a bellyful of that crap already.

“He’s the General.” Erik shrugs.

“Won’t matter to the King, not about this. He doesn’t like—” Erik presses his lips together tightly and doesn’t respond. “Erik?”

“He allows a lot of things he doesn’t like.” Erik grits out. “Why not allow him to live, too?”

Logan blinks, and stares some. Erik does genuinely seem to think Charles will let this slide. Huh.

“Uh, because he can make a good lesson out of it? Because he can’t let himself be seen as a tyrant?”

“Why would he want to use Shaw to teach anyone? He burnt my town!” Erik half shouts it. Logan wishes the beer-boy would hurry up and bring them both a cold one. If ever a man needs a drink, it’s Erik right now.

“Bub, Charles wants slavery to stop. Arresting slavers shows that, an’ he wouldn’t stay King long if he didn’t use _everything_ he could.”

“What?” Erik seems unwilling to get it.

Logan bites back a sigh and proceeds with his basic politics lesson. “Charles is the King, but he’s not—he’s not a tyrant. He has to show he respects all the laws, not just the bit that says the throne is his and we all gotta do as he says.”

Erik scowls fiercely as he mulls this over.

“That why you and he are mad at each other?” Logan grins a little.

“I—how did you know?” Erik seems almost afraid.

“He don’t like huntin’,” Logan reminds him. “But he’s out hunting now, an’ he went without you, and’ me.”

“Charles went alone?” Erik’s fear drops away, and he straightens. “He—he shouldn’t do that.”

“No, not alone. Took a couple of my best men; and half a dozen servants.”

“Why-?”

“Charles goes hunting; he doesn’t have to deal with anyone when he knows he’s not thinking or feeling straight. S’not like he goes round killing animals for fun much.”

“Last time—we didn’t even join the hunt.” Erik smiles, wryly. “We sat in the woods and I—”

“I can guess.” Logan smiles a little himself. “Brat used to make me go off and kill him some things to take home, back when he was a kid, just to shut the Lord Regent up.” He gestures. “Just wandering about the woods was frowned on, but wandering around and killing rabbits? That was right fine, in his Lordship’s mind.”

Another scowl flits briefly over Erik’s face when Marko is mentioned. Logan doesn’t pry. He wouldn’t put much past Kurt Marko. And Erik had been a body servant and slave in his house, not so long back, after all. There’s a timid knocking at the door.

“Bout time; didya have to _brew_ the ale?” Logan growls when the new recruit sticks his head round the door.

“I—no, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“An’ don’t sir me.” Logan grumbles, mostly out of habit.

“Sorry, s—. Sorry.” The kid fidgets. Erik leans back in his chair, and smiles.

“Well? Beer?” Logan snaps his fingers at the boy.

“I. Um. General Shaw.” The boy mumbles. Erik tenses up, sitting straight. “He, um. Expressed a desire to, ah, dine—for you both to dine with him.”

Erik’s hand wraps itself around his sword hilt.

“Ah—” Logan pauses, trying to find a way to head this off at the pass, fast. Erik beats him to it.

“Please tell General Shaw we’d be… honoured,” he says, smoother than silk and twice as graceful.

“WE won’t—” Logan blurts, and Erik shoots him a look.

“We will,” he assures the recruit. “Believe me, we will.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Charles's hunt occurs, and someone locates their quarry...

It’s a fine day for a hunt. The air is crisp and cool, with the promise of sun later. Charles sighs, inwardly. He wishes he felt more eager for this, but truthfully—truthfully—Charles would rather be inside, in his private quarters, curled up with Erik under his covers, warm and alone together.

Given that Erik’s not exactly in the mood for… cuddling, or even talking right now, that’s not an option. And given that Charles knows he’s distracted, Charles’s next preference would be to do what he did when he was small and confused, or sad, or angry: hide in the library for a few hours. Maybe climb some of the shelves and wait to see who found him.

Charles looks at the happy faces of the men (and woman) around him, and he sighs again. Picking up his reins, he urges the horse into motion. He’s immediately imitated by the rest of his companions, as the impromptu hunt moves off. Fortunately, between riding people and running hounds, no one’s able to draw Charles into a conversation.

He cannot risk anyone thinking he and Erik are seriously at odds, or that anything else is troubling him. He’s the King; if he is serene, so is his nation, if he is angry… Erik has made enemies at court, mostly by being so loyal to Charles, and if anyone thought he was vulnerable… Charles has to protect Erik. Has to.

“The hounds have picked up a trail, majesty!” Breathlessly excited, the dog boy scrambles back down the hill to where the royal party awaits. “Uh. Probably deer.” One of the other horsemen extends a hand and the boy scrambles aboard as the hounds’ musical calls echo through the woodlands.

Horns sound up ahead, guiding their chase. Charles is pleased no nobles managed to invite themselves along. He doesn’t want to have to cope with well-intentioned or grasping noble flattery and attention when he’s in a mood like this one. Charles is angry, and he knows he’s being unreasonable about it, and he’s worried.

By Erik, for Erik. It’s much the same thing.

The dogs mill around, casting about uncertainly as the scent is lost, and then start off in a different direction, the trail found again. Charles nudges his horse to slow, mindful of the trampled mud on the trail. If the footing’s uncertain, the horse might well stumble, even fall. Charles doesn’t want to add injury to an already unlucky day.

 _Should have explained things better to Erik, that night,_ he thinks despondently. _Or at all._

Hiding under that thought is a tiny flicker of bitterness and self-pity. Just once, just _once_ , he’d thought he had a lover who wanted Charles more than the King; a relationship where his crown would not get in the way, where the person wouldn’t ask the Crown to do him a favour, outside of the play-acting rituals and formalities, and it had turned out… differently.

That’s unfair.

Erik didn’t want anything other than revenge, not even his life. Charles could feel that need beating out of him, as if he was bleeding out; all his fear and rage gushing like a fountain, pulsing in time with his heart. It was Charles who wanted Shaw brought down in such a way that he got to keep Erik alive and safe. Erik didn’t care; was willing to sacrifice his life and his love to avenge the already dead.

That’s unfair, too.

The horse picks up the pace, and Charles sits straighter in his saddle, enjoying the crisp summer air, the light through the leaves and the fine day. He grins, leaning forwards. Around him the mood lightens; his companions relax as much as is safe when galloping horses through woodland in hot pursuit of hounds.

Erik. The other man’s face floats into Charles’s eye, almost blocking the path ahead, until he blinks. How tired, how strong he’d seemed when they first met, Erik a kneeling slave, Charles in his most formal robes of state, and one of them gifted to the other like a dog, or a horse.

Charles reminds himself of how far the other man has come, and from where. Of course he has no faith in the courts, in the law that enforces his enslavement; in the forces that—even if they have brought him into Charles’s protection—have also ensured that Erik _needs_ that protection. Of course he thinks he’d be alone in any attempts to bring Shaw down—

The hounds bay and they can see the quarry—a deer—leaping away downhill through the trees. It’s no king stag; but by the number of points it carries, it’s an acceptable prey. Charles signals the go-ahead, and the noise—yelping and horn-calls and cheering—redoubles. Charles leans forwards, abandoning introspection to be alive in the moment.

He’s far enough away—and a deer is far enough away from being human—that the excitement of the chase washes over any other fear or feeling. Charles whoops as the speed picks up, his horse light and nimble on her feet. The hounds are racing alongside the deer now, biting and leaping again at the beast’s flanks. Charles looks around for the crossbow bearer and the spear man to put the deer out of its misery.

There’s a sudden commotion behind him. Someone yells, cut-off. Accident or argument? He opens up his mind, but there’s only surprise and shock, untraceable. Charles frowns, and signals the huntsman to call off the dogs. Charles flicks out his mind again, harder and gets—nothing. Alarmed, he reins his horse to a slow walk.

There’s more screaming then, and now Charles can feel it; the pain and fear of his own men as they are cut into, knocked from their horses. Death is happening here. But from whom? And where? He can only sense his own people. In the frantic chaos, Charles tries to send out a mental shout; it gets nowhere. They’re too far away from help. More pain and death floods in.

Charles reels in his saddle. His hand drops to his sword; not a weapon of value but one he habitually wears when hunting. Short, good for a quick mercy blow; but not a particularly useful weapon in combat.

“That’s the target!”

“That’s him!”

Charles wrenches around to see rough-dressed strangers, wearing basic metal armour and strange, close-fitting helmets galloping down towards him. He reaches out again, and again his mind slides away from the minds of these attackers like water falling away from glass.

He just has time to realise he recognises none of them, when the groom riding next to him, one of Logan’s training, leaps sideways and brings them both down off their horses in a clumsy, half-controlled fall, forcing Charles to the ground and covering the King with his body.

Arrows fly over Charles’s head as he falls, slice deep into the horses. They shriek like dying men.

“Block him, block him, block him!” one of the attackers yells. “Before he can call for help!”

The groom— _Michael_ —Charles remembers his name, jerks oddly over him. The shock of Michael’s pain and death, so close to him, floods Charles, overwhelming his defences almost completely. For a brief moment he has to fight to stay conscious.

Michael’s limp body is dragged off him. Charles comes up swinging but he’s in pain, shocked from the fall and the telepathic overload. He only lands a few strikes before his sword is cut from his hand.

“I said, block him, you stupid shits!” Charles rushes the nearest, trying to punch him. He doesn’t reach his target. Something heavy smacks him in the head, and then he’s down, lying in the leaf-litter. Hands reach out for him. Charles snarls, and tries to scramble up. Another blow drops him back down, dazed, and only just conscious.

Hard hands pull him up, and Charles dangles limp between them. There’s some fumbling around his head and then the world… goes silent. Charles yells, aloud, and in his mind but nothing happens. The last few thoughts of Charles’s hunting party vanish, and Charles is silent, silenced, isolated amidst his enemies. He opens his mouth to threaten his captors.

Another blow chokes Charles’s speech in his throat. His teeth click together, and blood fills his mouth. He cries out, wordless in pain and confusion. A final blow sends him into the silent dark alone.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dining with your enemy is hard work. Fortunately for Erik; Logan's on his side and can help him with any... etiquette problems that might arise.

The General laughs heartily, head thrown back, as he gestures for them both to come in. Erik can’t suppress a sharp pang of fear as the doors close behind them.

“You must be Erik.” Shaw says to him. “I’ve heard so many rumours. I must admit, I’m fairly fascinated by the reality.” His eyes rake over Erik’s clothes, seemingly cutting through them to pry at the soul beneath. Erik blinks, slowly, and moves to abase himself as any slave should. He keeps his hands from curling into fists through sheer willpower.

“On, none of that.” Shaw waves a lazy hand, moving as if to put a hand under Erik’s elbow. “This is just an informal… get-together. Of fighters, perhaps?” Shaw gives Logan an arch look when Logan doesn’t object to Erik being described as a fighter. Erik moves away before he can be touched, standing straight under his own strength.

“My lord,” is all Erik says aloud. Logan shoots him a quick look. Erik keeps his face still. He’s called other men he’s hated the same title before. It doesn’t matter to him. Charles does not insist he use titles, when Erik speaks to him, and anyway, he’s Erik’s King. Erik’s never called him “my lord.”

Inwardly Erik’s quivering: with rage, or fear, or both. Externally, he stands straight and still, hands by his sides. Proper and correct, the way a bodyservant should be. He doesn’t quite know how none of this inner turmoil reaches beyond his mask, but Shaw simply smiles warmly at him.

“I said, none of that.” The smile is sharp. Erik feels cut by it.

He looks back at Shaw blandly, pulling his old—almost discarded—armour of numbness around himself for defence.

The silence stretches for a long moment until Logan shatters it, strolling further into the suite of rooms.

“Where’s your ale?” he asks over his shoulder. “I know you, Sebastian, you’ll have something better than wine for us.”

“On the left.” Shaw turns away from Erik and moves to follow Logan. After a moment, Erik drifts after them.

Absently, automatically, Erik catalogues his environment as he goes. The room beyond is well furnished and clean, even if the furniture is very clearly from an earlier era. The walls are blank and bright, freshly lime-washed rather than painted, and if there were hangings here, Shaw has had them removed.

Shaw has dropped into one of the armchairs by the low fire, sprawling at his ease. Logan turns from the array of bottles and jugs lined up under the window, and hands a tankard to Erik. He’s suddenly, obscurely grateful—he doesn’t want to take anything from Shaw, except his life, perhaps. Except his life.

Logan takes the seat opposite the General. Erik squares his shoulders and sets his feet where he is, closer to Logan but facing Shaw; he’s damned if he’ll kneel or sit on the floor in the presence of his enemy.

“Oh, sit,” Shaw says, and Erik tenses, until he realises Shaw is pointing at the bench by the fire. It’s not as padded as the General’s chair, but it puts Erik at about the same height. It’ll do.

“My Lord,” he says, again, ducking his head as he sits.

Shaw chuckles, but makes no direct response.

“My servants will bring the food presently,” he tells them both, jovially. “I thought we could occupy the time with pleasant small talk.”

Erik says nothing. He wonders why he decided on this, apart from morbid curiosity, the need to see his enemy up close before he attacked. It’s good that he did. The General is even more dangerous than Erik thought; so charming, so friendly here, who would believe he was also the burning man of Erik’s nightmares?

“Never known you be one for small talk before,” Logan grunts, and sups his ale.

“Well, any strategist worth his salt constantly seeks out new information,” Shaw says, as if he’s conceded something.

Erik’s mouth is dry. He takes a sip of the ale. It’s a good brew; he recognises it as the Palace’s own.

“Information or gossip?” Logan smirks. The General looks thoughtful.

“True, the ability to sift rumours and discern between speculation and truth is, perhaps what makes a strategist worth their salt.” Shaw leans back, eyes hooded. Logan tries more ale. Erik says nothing.

“Take you, for example.” Shaw suddenly fixes Erik with a sharp glance. “I have heard many… rumours about you.”

“My lord,” Erik says, stolidly.

“Almost, I’m sure, as many rumours as you’ve heard about me,” Shaw says silkily. He sits up, leaning forwards to stare at Erik intently. Erik studies his forehead carefully.

“I’ve no time to listen to rumours. My Lord.” Erik breathes in. Calm. Calm and numb. Nothing can hurt him when he’s numb. Not even—”

“Shaw—” Logan starts to say, Shaw cuts him off.

“But do you start them?” His eyes are eager, but for what?

Erik cudgels his brains. What does he suspect? And why has he identified Erik as something to be suspicious of? Erik is nothing; as a bodyservant, he only rates above furniture because he’s the King’s, and the King has a regard for him.

“About the King?” Erik tilts his head, obedient and startled. “Never, my lord.” He wouldn’t, either. Not even if it wasn’t Charles he’d be talking about. Discretion is vital, for a body servant. Those who cannot control their tongues end up losing them.

Shaw’s eyes narrow.

“I have never been interested in rumours, or lies, my lord.” Erik continues, innocently. “Only truth.” _There,_ he thinks, sipping more ale. _Chew on that. ___

__“Truth?” General Shaw laughs again. “Whose truth?”_ _

__“Truth’s truth, my lord,” Erik says softly._ _

__“A bold statement, for someone in your… position,” Shaw replies, equally softly. Logan shifts noisily on his seat._ _

__“How so, my lord?” Erik swallows. “My King commands me, always, and you should know he prefers truth to rumours.” Shaw’s breath is coming faster now._ _

__“Your king?” He stresses the first word lightly. “Your master, you mean?” Erik dips his head, closing his eyes._ _

__“I am his.”_ _

__“And have you never wanted to be your own?” Shaw sounds fascinated._ _

__Erik cocks his head. “I am the King’s,” he repeats almost calmly._ _

__“Ain’t we all.” Logan says, almost under his breath. Shaw swings his head round and stares at him. Logan smiles brightly.  
“The King’s servants, ain’t we all that?”_ _

__

__Shaw stares at Logan some more, and Erik is exceedingly glad when Shaw’s soft-footed servants bring, yes, a light repast, of fruit and cold meats and bread._ _

__“Come on, then.” Shaw says, standing, when the food has been laid out properly. “I’m a soldier, I don’t much care for protocols or such like outside of the battlefield.”_ _

_Or on it._ Erik thinks. 


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And what has been happening to Charles? In this chapter we find out who took him.

Charles wakes into jolting darkness, and pain. Muffled noises, further away. His limbs are tied and he’s... blindfolded? There's something pressing against his face, clamping down against his skull... Charles tries to open his eyes, again and he can't.

He hopes he’s _only_ blindfolded. He’s certainly gagged; the taste of whatever rag that’s stuffed in his mouth is disgusting. Charles struggles briefly to sit up, open his eyes, and fails. He calls out, aloud and mentally, and then— 

Pain. The world goes away.

When the jolting comes back, Charles lies still, doesn’t move or struggle, and the world stays around him. Cautiously, he tries to work out what has happened. What’s still happening. It seems clear, as he slides from side to side, impacting against unyielding wood each time, that something _is_ still happening. Something that has him gagged, tied up and blindfolded, alone.

It’s too quiet. There are noises—a creaking and thumping, probably from the cart or carriage he’s in. It moves unsteadily, almost lurching along. The road must be either considerably potholed, or non-existent. He can’t smell much beyond the gag.

There are other sounds, too. Bird alarm calls. Metallic jingles of horse bits and stirrups. Voices, speaking fast, too fast for Charles’s aching ears to catch the sense of speech. But no thoughts. No mind glows. Half his hearing is gone. Charles can hear himself think; but he can’t hear anybody else.

Not even the people who are there, _must_ be there, somewhere outside of the helmet that must be what’s holding him trapped in his head. Again and again, Charles pushes his mind, trying to reach out, but nothing works. He might as well be a thousand leagues away from any living mind.

Charles sucks in a shallow breath through the foul cloth over his mouth, and tries to think through the dizzying disorientation that losing his telepathy brings. He recognises the sensation, now he’s more awake. It was a punishment the Lord Regent had used on him once or twice, before he’d got scared of the results, and switched back to using a cane.

There was a hunt. He remembers that. Remembers, too how it ended. _Michael._ He remembers the man shielding him, and the pain of his dying. There must have been other deaths, too. Charles swallows, sickly, and tries to choke down the vast rage and guilt. They were his people, and they were attacked because of him, he’s sure of it.

_I won’t let them get away with it, _Charles vows to himself, fiercely.__

__Over the next few hours, it becomes an oath, a promise he repeats, over and over, to take himself away from the discomfort and the grief. He is not unaccustomed to thinking of himself as a target. He doesn’t know who’s taken him, or where, or what they intend to happen, but they will not succeed. Somehow, he will foil them. Charles swears it to himself._ _

__The jolting stops. Sudden hands grab at him, pulling him up to lean against the wall of the cart. Charles freezes, trying not to panic as his gag is pulled away roughly. He can’t see them, can’t sense them, can’t _stop them_. He breathes in. Charles is a King; and he will remain strong. He won’t give them his fear to mock._ _

__Charles opens his mouth to ask a question: “Who?” or “Why?” as soon as he can. A croak is all that emerges; his throat is too dry._ _

__“No talking,” says a man’s voice, flatly._ _

__A leather bottle is put to his lips, and he swallows carefully. Water. They let him drink, still blindfolded. Then someone is shoving food into his mouth, far too fast; travel bread wrapped round some stew. Charles chews and swallows, trying not to choke._ _

__“Enough. We need to move,” a voice says, as Charles swallows his final bite._ _

__Charles tilts his head, trying to focus on the voice through the blindfold and the helmet’s muffling._ _

__“Who—what—where are you taking me?” He’s proud his voice sounds so calm._ _

__“Don’t answer him,” says the voice. “We ain’t paid for answers. Give him the stuff.”_ _

__The bottle is put back to Charles’s mouth. He turns his head away from it. It doesn’t smell like plain water now._ _

__“Drink.” There’s no emotion to the voice, and without his telepathy, Charles can’t even tell if it’s a person saying it, or just his imagination._ _

__“I assure you—” The leather bottle is jammed into his face again, cutting off his words._ _

__“It ain’t gonna kill you. Drink it, or I can knock you on the head again. Your choice.”_ _

__Charles drinks. The water tastes bitter. Charles swallows as little as he can. The voice gives curt orders, and soon the cart he’s in jolts into motion again._ _

__Time passes._ _

__Everything fades away, and Charles sinks into a limp almost-sleep. It’s cold, and he is in the dark, in pain. The jolting and the noise continue, as does Charles’s awareness of them, but he can’t really move or think. He can no longer measure time properly; he only knows sometimes there is movement and sometimes not. Sometimes he hurts less, sometimes more._ _

__A few times—more than once but he cannot say how many—he is fed and watered again, and the water always tastes bitter._ _

__Time passes._ _

__Voices. Shouting. Those are the first things Charles registers. He stays still—he doesn’t want them knowing the drugs have worn off yet. Charles’s head aches viciously, and he’s still blindfolded, but at least they’ve taken the gag off._ _

__“I wanted him _dead!_ Accidental death, not this—this clumsy massacre!”_ _

__He knows that voice. Where-?_ _

__“You want a king dead, kill him yourself.” That’s the voice that had offered him a choice between drugs and concussion._ _

__“I needed. A hunting accident. I needed an _accident._ ” The first voice growls between its teeth. “The heir is only a child, I could have—”_ _

__“They went after the wrong quarry!” the voice protests, and Charles feels a faint flicker of amusement. “False trail didn’t work. Horse didn’t fall.”_ _

__“I should dock your pay for this!”_ _

__“I wouldn’t do that, m’lord. Might be… unhealthy. You got him now. Like I said, kill him yourself.”_ _

__“Myself!?”_ _

__“I don’t suppose I could persuade either of you not to kill me?” Charles says, steadily, looking towards the voices._ _

__He’s racking his brains, trying to work out where he knows the first voice from. It’s so hard, without the mind behind the sound, to match them. He is suddenly, unspeakably glad that Erik is safely away from this. If he’d been riding with Charles, as he often did, then Erik would be dead or captive too. He only has to keep himself alive. Erik, Logan, Raven—they’re all safe._ _

__“He’s awake,” says the voice Charles has labelled “Kidnapper.”_ _

__“You can’t even keep him quiet now!” complains “Familiar.”_ _

__Hands seize Charles, dragging him along cobbled stones. He’s jerked upright, but the way his numb legs are tied, he cannot stand by himself. His captors must know this, because they hold him up. His tied hands dangle in front of him._ _

__“I’m not even going to ask what you hoped to get out of this.” Charles says, steadily. “Because I know you won’t succeed—” Someone hits him. Charles feels his teeth cut open the inside of his cheek as his head snaps sideways. He grunts, but he won’t let them hear him yell._ _

__“Won’t I?” Familiar says, and Charles can almost recognise it, almost put a name to the smug gloating tones. “”I always get what I want, eventually, don’t I?”_ _

__“Not this time,” Charles promises quietly. “Not this time.”_ _

__“S’long as I get what I want.” Kidnapper says. “I don’t care about either of you two nobles getting anything.”_ _

__“Of course.” There’s a faint jingling thud. A purse being thrown and caught?_ _

__“You should know that, as King, I of course have control of the treasury.” Charles says, conversationally. “I’m sure I have the deeper pockets.”_ _

__“Yeah, and the higher gallows an’ all.” Kidnapper says, but he sounds amused. “M’lords.”_ _

__“Ah, I see.” Charles says, as graciously as is possible, blindfolded and bound and dangling from his captor’s arms. “I quite understand.” Kidnapper laughs._ _

__“Shut up.” Familiar says. “Bring him. Then go to the kitchens, tell my steward to see to your supplies.”_ _

__“Ain’t you even gonna unwrap him?” Kidnapper says, honestly curious. “Maybe—” Hands tug at Charles’s blindfold. Light floods into his eyes, painfully bright after so long in the dark, as the cloth pads drop from his face. “Maybe you should see what you’ve bought.”_ _

__Charles squints and blinks until his vision seems to settle. He looks around, forgetting his captors momentarily. It’s dusk, and he’s in a courtyard that he knows all too well._ _

__A hand grabs at Charles’s chin, tugs him round until he can see—_ _

__“Hello, Cain.” Charles says, as Familiar’s voice gains a face he also knows all too well. “I don’t suppose you’re going to favour me with an explanation for all of this?”_ _


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meal with Shaw ends. And where is Charles?

The light is fading towards evening when the collation comes to an end. Erik has eaten little—some bread, some meat, and the glass house-grown fruit the General had pressed on him, generously insisting he try the delicate peaches, the tart-sweet pineapple; as if Erik could not eat all the food, try all the luxuries he ever wished for, at Charles’s table.

As if anything touched by the burning man could ever taste of more than dust and ashes in Erik’s mouth. 

He chokes it down, and mouths the right words of appreciation; and watches Shaw for any signs of weakness; gluttony, drunkenness, lust. The General remains smoothly courteous and affable throughout the meal, sipping wine and chatting with Logan, or watching him cheerfully demolish another platter.

General Shaw is smiling tightly when his servants come in to carry away the empty plates and dishes. 

Erik has had very little to say, as befits a bodyservant amongst high ranking freemen. Logan has talked, idly, like an old man in front of a winter fire, of past wars and exploits, weapons and logistics. He’s been determinedly cutting through or ignoring many of the routes the General has tried to direct the conversation down, hence the tightness in Shaw’s smile.

Were it not for the fact that he is Charles’s, body and soul, Erik might have had to kiss Logan for that. Usually the King’s bodyguard is not much for small talk. Erik isn’t much up to word wars, even with people who are not nightmares from his childhood. He determines he’ll mention Logan’s diplomatic skills to his King, the next time they’re in private. Charles will know how to thank Logan best.

Logan shifts in his seat. Erik stays perfectly still, patiently posed on his bench. The King’s captain tilts his head and gives Shaw a long, lazy smile.

“Not that swappin’ darin’ tales with you hasn’t been fun, but Erik’s looking kinda bored. And the King should return from the hunt soon enough.” Shaw blinks. “Well,” Logan says into the silence that follows. “Guess we’d all better be getting about our business.” He stands, pushing back his chair with a scrape. Erik rises silently next to him.

“I am glad you both… enjoyed my hospitality.” The General smiles tautly again. “Please, allow me to invite you again sometime.”

Erik says nothing, eyes flicking away from Shaw to the window. Logan grins.

“Sometime. Yeah. And I gotta invite you to sample what’s on the menu in the guard’s mess, one night.”

“I would be honoured.”

Shaw’s voice is almost toneless, but Erik detects a faint strain there. He keeps his satisfaction at his enemy’s frustration well hidden, out of long practice, as they bow and withdraw from Shaw’s presence. Everybody’s so polite and formal; Erik’s half-expecting Logan to explode, but everyone also keeps smiling at each other. The General watches them go, joyless under his social grin. They have clearly not reacted as their host had hoped.

Erik is still unclear as to what Shaw had wanted from them both, or why a light collation—thank you Logan, for that tid-bit of knowledge—had been Shaw’s weapon of choice. But they’re done, now. The door closes behind them. Erik has survived a few hours in the Burning Man’s presence without trying to kill him, and he hasn’t been hurt, so he allows himself a breath of relaxation.

“Come on, bub.” Logan lengthens his stride from an easy pace into a jog. “Let’s get you back before they start sending out search parties.” His footsteps change, growing muffled as they make their way from stone flags to the wooden floorboards of the corridors closer to the King’s chambers. 

“They know the King is at the hunt. _I’m_ not going to be missed, surely?” Erik speaks without thinking, still unconsciously assuming his status makes him invisible to free folk, and is startled when Logan shakes his head.

“Kinda hard to miss these days. Velvet an’ all.” He punches Erik lightly in the arm; either as encouragement or as a demonstration. Or because he can. Logan tends not to do many things for other reasons than that last one, Erik thinks with a smile at his beautiful, metal-lined boots.

“Alex dresses most of—” Erik wants to protest. He shouldn’t be noticeable. He doesn’t _want_ to be noticeable. But Logan rarely musters the energy to lie to him.

“Not the clothes,” Logan takes the stairs two at a time. “You, bub. The way you move, that ain’t like a-a body servant very often these days.”

“Oh.”

“Not a bad thing.” They turn the corner towards Charles’s private rooms. “But you ain’t always gonna be able to play the meek, faceless bodyservant like you just did with Shaw. You’re changing, bub. Have been since you got here.”

“Did he buy it?” Erik moves onto the important part of the conversation as fast as he can. He doesn’t want to think about how much he’s changed. How much he has been able to grow since he was given into the King’s hands. Since Charles. Not now, when he must think of what he needs to do; now he needs to be able to be dead again. 

Going back hurts. But it needs to be done. Shaw must die; Shaw must be stopped. For the ashes of Erik’s hometown. For the life—the lives—he sold. For the blood he spilt. For the scars on Erik’s body. For the scars in Erik’s heart. Shaw must pay, and the only coin Erik will accept is heart’s blood.

“Just might have done.” Logan’s eyes narrow as he considers. “He was definitely sizing you up; he knows my rep already.” He nods to the guard at Charles’s door as they move past him. 

“Why?” Erik doesn’t mean for that to sound as plaintive or as frightened as it does. He shouldn’t be frightened; Shaw serves the King, and Erik is under Charles’ protection. Even if the King will not let Erik defend himself against Shaw, he’ll keep Erik as safe as he can. “I don’t think he’d remember me; there were so many of us.”

“He’s no fool.” Logan closes the door behind him. “An’ the walls have ears, around here.” 

“You think he knows that I—” Erik whirls away to the window, clenches his fists. He breathes deeply, seeking for more self control “That I—”

“Not sure. But he knows you’re a bodyservant; maybe he knows just how many he sells to that… trade, an—”

“Numbers.” Erik says it bitterly, staring out of the window. The first star is awake in the clear twilight. “We were all just numbers. Targets and, and profits.” Outside, the grounds of the palace stretch far away, lush and quiet in the early evening. ”Maybe he’s worried one of his numbers has grown a face.” 

Erik grins, mirthlessly. He has grown so much more than a face, since Charles commanded and coaxed him back to life. He’s grown a heart, and hope, and—

“And a voice.” Logan grins. “And the ear of the King.” 

Erik frowns. Shifts restlessly from foot to foot. Something is not right. Perhaps it’s just his agitation from the argument at candlelight, from the long, stressful meal where he had to eat and smile and not kill his enemy. Having the King’s ear isn’t much of a soother. Charles didn’t listen to him, not over Shaw, and—Charles. 

Where is Charles? Is he still avoiding them, trying to stay away from Erik until he thinks things have blown over? Does he know what Shaw has done, could he use his mind to find out why he invited Erik and Logan to eat with him? Where _is_ Charles?

“Where is he?” he asks aloud. “They set off this morning; he’s—they’re taking a long time with this hunt.” An uneasy feeling churns in his gut. Erik ignores it; it’s probably only the pineapple, or the peaches, taking their revenge.

“Wily rabbits.” Logan’s smile fades too fast. Their eyes meet. “Could just be a long trail, or a horse throwing a shoe or—”

“Or nothing at all.” Erik agrees. “They’d send a messenger back, if anything was badly wrong, after all.” They would. If a horse was injured, or a person— They’d send a messenger back, surely. If anything was wrong, that’s what they’d do. Erik bites his lip, makes himself stop with an effort. He’s getting worked up over nothing.

“That they would.” Logan nods. “If they could.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles is given a command he cannot or will not follow.

The sunlight lances through the bare room holding the King as if to taunt him. Charles pinches his nose and tries to scratch under the helmet that’s still buckled to his head, repressing his Talent. It’s tricky—his hands are still tied together—but it’s necessary. He’s warm enough—and it’s just the warmth, he tells himself, firmly—to sweat; and it itches.

The room is high up in the house; remote enough from day to day life that he’s never been in it before, even though he ran all over the building when the Lord Regent brought him here as a child, desperate for freedom from his uncle’s heavy hand, wild to be alone. Well. He’s alone now, and it’s no comfort or freedom at all, is it?

The room Charles was dumped in is no prison cell; Kurt Marko’s manor has none. It’s a plain room, and Charles can see little signs—scrapes on the floor and walls where furniture has been removed, empty hooks for hangings still jutting from the walls—that tell him that’s a relatively recent thing. There’s only one window. Charles drags himself off the floor and wanders over to it, standing on tip-toe.

He sighs, giving up the attempt at looking out of the too-high window, and moves to sit on the blanket-strewn pallet on the floor. That and a chamber pot are the only furnishings the room has, apart from Charles. He bites his lip. He honestly cannot think why Cain hasn’t killed him yet, if that was his original intent, given the angry conversation he’d had with Charles’ captors.

It makes a vague sort of sense; although Cain must know neither he nor his father could realistically hope to be named Lord Protector. Charles frowns to himself. He’d not have thought Kurt Marko would be able to encompass actually killing an anointed King. He’d never managed it through all of Charles’ childhood, after all.

Cain must know that also; perhaps he’s hoping for a place in Court again? It seems a very simple desire, for Cain.

“Come on, _think,_ ” Charles urges himself. He has to get himself out of this, if possible, and if not, make sure that his killers will not succeed in any of their plans, will not benefit by his death more than he can help.

He’s not sure how long he’s been missing. Long enough to be moved from the Palace to Marko’s manor house, so several days. Long enough to be missed, certainly. The Court will be in uproar; there’s no clear second in command to the monarchy. General Shaw commands the army, but most of it is not in the capital. Raven could command the Court; but she is still mostly seen as the harmless young widow; no contacts and no authority reclaimed from her year’s morning.

And Erik— _no._ Charles does not let himself think of Erik; of the Court and people he left behind when he was snatched. _Logan can protect Erik,_ Charles hopes. He does not think of Raven; all she has done and sacrificed for his causes, or of her small son, who will wear the crown after him, if, as seems increasingly likely right now, Charles dies without issue of his own.

The door opens without any harsh scraping sounds, swinging back on well-oiled hinges. Cain marches in, followed by two servants. One of them is carrying a chair. Charles looks up, and has to bite back an amused smile as Cain carefully arranges the scene to his satisfaction.

“Cousin.” Charles says aloud, carelessly welcoming. “Good to see you again. I trust you slept—”

“Don’t do your courtly bullshit.” Cain snaps as he sits down at last. He’s flushed with anger already. The two servants melt back towards the door, standing either side of it, and Charles isn’t sure if they’re there for Cain or for the door itself. Their carefully blank expressions, and the collar one wears, indicate they probably don’t have much choice about being there.

“Bullshit?” Charles raises an eyebrow. “Funny, cousin. I thought you enjoyed the Court, far more than—”

“You’re going to write a letter for me.” Cain cuts across his carefully careless speech with an impatient wave of his hand.

“Am I.”

“If you know what’s good for you.” Cain snarls. Charles keeps himself from recoiling with a concentrated effort.

“Ah.” He says nothing more. There’s a short silence. “I don’t suppose you would care to enlighten me as to the contents, of this letter, Cain? I’m hardly—” Charles indicates the helmet still fastened to his head with an airy wave of his bound hands, “—able to work out what you want by myself, at the moment.” He bares his teeth in an almost smile at his Cain.

Cain flushes darkly, standing with a scrape of chair against floor.

“Don’t push me, _Cousin._ You will not like the results, I promise you that. If you think Dad—”

“And how is Lord Marko?” Charles says, softly. “Does he know what you’re doing? What you’ve done? Is he—”

Cain slaps Charles across the face. Hard. Stars explode across Charles’s vision, and he sways backwards, nearly falling.

“He’s sick. Asleep.” Cain sneers it, standing above him. “And you leave him out of this. This is just you and me, _Your Majesty._ ” Big fists seize Charles’s much abused shirt, dragging the King to his feet. Cain is still taller than him, and Charles’s toes barely touch the floor. He leans backwards, pushing at Cain with his bound hands.

“I understand.” Charles says. “But—forgive me, cousin—you still haven’t told me what you actually want from me.”

Cain releases his stranglehold on Charles’s shirt and steps back. He’s grinning now.

“You write a letter. Recalling me to Court. Giving me guardianship over Raven’s brat.”

“No.” Charles says it instantly, without hesitation or thought. Cain gapes at him. Charles continues on, unthinking “Also, you probably mean codicil, or declaration; a letter’s not binding—” He shuts his mouth with a snap.

“No?” Cain breathes into his face. “It’s only guardianship. I won’t even hurt the little tyke; I promise.” Incredibly, he appears to be smiling. “And I promise that—”

“You intend to name yourself his Lord Protector.” Charles says evenly, calmly. “It will not work, cousin.” He steps off his pallet, and paces towards the window, playing for time. “You must know it will not. The Court, my will—”

“You’ve written a will already?” Cain blurts. Charles does not sigh. He’s always hoped, if he was ever going to have to deal with a coup or kidnapping, that his opponents would be less than clever but this, this is a bit much.

“Cain, I’m the King. _Of course I’ve written a will_ ; practically the first thing I did once I was legally of age.” Cain looks nonplussed. Charles turns to look at the window. He can see where this is going, and he doubts he’s going to be able to see the sky very often again.

“Well, write a-a—that thing, a codicil.” Cain moves closer, standing behind Charles. Charles represses a shiver.

“And then what, Cain?” Charles says gently, not turning around. “I promise to recall you to court? You let me go, and we don’t talk about this?”

“You write it. You write or I hurt you.” Cain leans in, whispering heavily in Charles’s ear.

Charles swallows. He must be calm, be strong. It’s a good thing that Cain’s plan is quite so stupid, he tries to tell himself. It means it won’t work, that little Kurt will not have Cain as guardian and Lord Protector. It hinges on Charles’ death; which will look suspicious, and any recent alterations to his will, will look even more questionable. It may weaken the kingdom, short term, but another long regency is survivable, for crown and country both.

“No, Cain.” Charles says again, swallowing. “No.”

He cannot, will not do it. Not his family. Not his kingdom. Not for Cain. Charles knows he can’t. He also knows that the second the ink on the damn codicil or letter is dry; Charles is a dead man walking. Refusing to cooperate is all that will keep him alive. Under that knowledge lies a lurking fear of pain and a profound unwillingness to die.

Charles breathes in, deeply. Cain might be able to break him. He acknowledges that. But the more damage he does to Charles’s body in the process, the harder it will be to make Charles’s death seem innocent.

Behind him Cain snarls, seizes his shoulder and spins him round. Charles staggers, almost falling, unbalanced by the weight of his tied hands.

“Yes,” Cain tells him. “You will.”

“I won’t.” Cain pushes him violently away. Charles staggers and falls, sprawling.

“Well then.” Cain smiles, and it’s ugly to see. “Guess I better muster my arguments then. Seeing you’ve decided to be stubborn.”

Charles doesn’t reply.

Cain moves towards the door. The two servants move to accompany him. “Don’t worry, Cousin,” he calls back over his shoulder, cheerful again. “I won’t keep you waiting long.” The door closes behind him.

Charles rolls onto his back and stares at the mute ceiling above him.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cain attempts to break Charles, and fails.
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings: Torture.
> 
>  
> 
> I am a horrible person. I really am. Sorry, Charles.

The small bare room is still small and bare. Charles crouches behind the door, waiting. He grips the chair leg awkwardly in his bound hands and hopes, fervently, that this will work. He’ll likely only have one shot. They haven’t fed him yet; but there has been water.

The next time someone comes through that door… They left the chair. Charles isn’t sure if that was deliberate, or an oversight. It doesn’t matter. It’s very clear he has to do something; he can’t allow himself to go to death or torture without _some_ kind of physical resistance beyond kicking and shouting.

 It’s not in his nature to lie down meekly for anyone. That’s what cost him most of his beatings from his Lord Protector, after all. Where is Kurt Marko, in all of this? Charles bites his lip, frowning. Sick, apparently. He wouldn’t have thought Kurt was the type to assist in a coup, or an assassination attempt on his sister’s son, on his King.

 _And if he had,_ Charles thinks, _It wouldn’t be such a dog’s breakfast of a plan, either._ Because it is. It really, really is. Cain’s stupidity would be funny, if it wasn’t what is also going to get Charles tortured and murdered. His palms are sweating. Charles flexes his fingers carefully. Faint sounds beyond the door make him cock his head.

 _Someone’s coming._ Charles braces himself.

The door opens. Charles springs forwards, swinging the chair leg as hard as he can at the first person through.  Unfortunately, there is more than one person at the door to his cell. Equally unfortunately, the person Charles has succeeded in hitting is not Cain, who stares at him in surprise and puzzlement, but only a burly-looking servant.

The servant cries out in startled pain, staggering. Charles bites back the desire to apologise, and hurls himself towards the door, trying to force his way through. If he can get out, run through the house to the back stairs, there’s a bare flicker of a chance— He bounces off Cain, scrambles towards the corridor and tries to run.

Charles is brought down within three steps, smashed to the floor with a force that leaves him half stunned.

He’s dragged back to the room, Cain gloating nervously behind him all the way. Charles bites his lip again. He can’t give in to despair just yet. The servants untie his hands and force Charles’s nose against the wall, holding him there with stolid, unthinking strength.

“Don’t you like my hospitality anymore, cousin?” Cain sneers. “Don’t worry. I’ve got some entertainment for you, if you won’t write what you’re told.”

“No. Never.” Charles pants breathlessly, struggling as he’s shackled to the wall he faces.  The servants are careful to ensure that he’s pinned tight before they pull away. The abandoned hooks must not have been for tapestries after all. Charles muses on that, as his shoulders ache. He wishes he could see the window.

“Shirt,” Cain says, crisply.

Charles has to fight to keep from trembling as his shirt—brave companion through all of this—is torn from his back. _This is going to hurt,_ he thinks. _So much._ He squares his shoulders as much as he can, given the way he’s tied. _Endure,_ he tells himself sternly. _You are the King; you have your duty. **Endure.**_

“You seem… oddly lacking in equipment,” Charles says as soon as he’s sure he can keep his voice from shaking. “No hot coals, Cain? No rack? I’m disappointed.”

Cain laughs, strained and somehow… anticipatory, moving forwards, towards Charles.

“Thought we’d start with something more… traditional.” There’s a hissing noise that Charles recognises. Leather, moving through the air.

“A riding—” _crop_ , he means to say, but the word dies in his throat with the first impact of leather on skin. The leather is oddly wet, leaving a sticky line along Charles’s shoulder blade. Charles does not cry out. Not at first. Cain grunts and strikes again, leaving another welt, another line of wetness.

The wetness tingles at first, but very rapidly starts to warm, and then to _burn_. In a way Charles would give anything not to recognise.

“No—” Charles chokes out, recognising what Cain has done as the sensations become sharper and more agonising. Cain has wiped or dipped the riding crop in punishment cream. Every blow drives another small amount of the cream into Charles’s back, deep into the skin. He chokes off the cries of pain, swallows down his sobs and screams. It gives him something to do.

Cain pants, as he wields the whip, and through the burning pain, Charles feels a slow, rolling wave of nausea as he realises. Cain is _enjoying_ this. Somehow, something in this situation—the smell of sweat and piss and pain cream, the sobbing sound of Charles’s breath, the whistling cracks of the riding crop against Charles’s flesh—is arousing his cousin in the way that pretty men or women arouse others.

“You’re—being—awfully—quiet,” Cain grunts. “Bet I can make you—sing!”

The blows keep coming, in a ragged, heavy wave of suffering. Charles hangs onto nothing, and tries to bear it. The lines cutting across his back burn as if the whip was made of fire, or hot iron. They keep burning, on and on, as if every moment is the moment of impact. Charles’s fingers clench and release on open air, high above his head, as he fights not to scream. Not to beg.

_Endure._

Finally, _finally,_ Cain stops.

For a moment there is nothing but silence in the small bare room, nothing but the sound of people fighting for breath, for different reasons. Charles hangs against the wall, unable to stand. His fingers are starting to go purple, he notes, vaguely. Dizzy with pain, he tries to think around the burning. It doesn’t go well.

“Charles.” Cain hooks a finger through the chin strap of Charles’s hateful helmet, and pulls, twisting Charles’s head towards him. “Come on. Be reasonable.” He licks his lips. “Just say yes to me.” Charles blinks at him. “Write the goddamned letter, and this can all be over.” Cain says, trying for soothing.

“Wouldn’t you like that?” He looks at Charles again. Charles looks back, levelly. “Some water, maybe even some soap to wash this off, and it’ll all be over. No more hurting.” His fingers caress Charles’s cheek, and Charles shudders. Cain seems to think it’s a sign of defeat, not revulsion, because he presses on. “You just have to write the letter.”

“Never.” Charles rasps. “Not… never.” Inwardly he steels himself. _Endure this,_ he tells his cringing back. _**Endure,** damn you._

Cain’s face darkens, and he scowls.

“Charles. I have a very large vat of this cream. It can go more places than your back, believe me.”

Charles doesn’t bother telling him he already knows that. Erik has told him, whispered of fearful memories in the safe dark of their shared bed, or shown him in accidentally shared dreams. Charles knows what can be done with pain cream. He knows. And he cannot, will not, allow it to break him.

“No.” It’s the only word Charles allows past his lips. The less he speaks, the less he risks conceding.

When Cain begins hurting him again, _No_ rapidly becomes the only word he knows.

   
   
Cain is gone. The servants are gone. The tired thoughts rattle around what’s left of Charles’s mind before he’s able to move past them. He’s alone.  Lying on his face, on the pallet. Burning. The cream is still working away. Charles feels himself crumbling in that fire of pain. He grits his teeth. Thinks of Erik. Erik, who endured so much, and is still so strong.

 _Erik,_ Charles tries to lose himself in memories of Erik; his rare, genuine smile, the beauty of his movement, in the practice ring or in bed, or dancing. The light in his eyes when he looks at Charles.

The taste of his skin.

Erik’s hands on him. So... careful.  Loving.

Charles blinks back tears. Erik had survived far more than this, and it did not break him. Charles cannot let it break him either. Erik deserves more. He remembers the concern mingled with anger Erik had shown when he’d caught Charles experimenting with pain cream before. The set of his shoulders when he’d bathed Charles’s arm in milk.

Charles wishes he had some milk or water right now.

Not soap though; he remembers Erik warning him not to use soap, only milk or, what was it? Oh yes, and his lips quirk faintly as he sees Raven’s face in his mind’s eye. _Piss._ Erik had said piss was a cure for this.

Very, very slowly, Charles’s battered brain makes the connection. His back is covered in thin stripes of pain cream. It hurts. He wants it to stop. He hasn’t any milk. But piss he has, in his bladder, and his chamber pot. The pot is too far away. His bladder is right there. Groaning at the pain of movement, Charles shifts his bruised hands down. Pulls his trousers open.  
 _This is going to be disgusting._ he thinks, but there’s a flicker of crazy amusement in there, along with a deep gratitude, for Erik’s knowledge. And then he lets go.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in time, and back to the Court. What's been happening with Charles gone?

This audience hall is cold, despite how full of bright sunshine and rich furnishings it is. Erik shifts his weight from one knee to another as the bickering goes on at table level, just over his head. He listens intently, even as he keeps his face blank. The princess will ask for his input on the meeting later. Somewhere deep inside, Erik smothers the howling need to be up and doing. To be part of the search parties Logan’s organised.

This, too, is helping the search for Charles. He wants to pick up a sword, hunt down and kill whoever’s taken his King, his lover, but he can’t. He is not free. Erik is a slave, and cannot handle weapons or leave the Palace without direct orders from his master.

And Charles is not here. He’s not dead, Erik insists to himself. He can’t be. Charles is missing, yes. But he’s not dead. Erik won’t let him be.

The hunting party was not discovered until long after the bodies had chilled. Everyone but the King lay dead, slaughtered by bandits unknown—no few of whose corpses had been discarded among the servants and attendants they’d attacked. The King was missing, however, although his horse was not. Erik refuses to believe Charles can be dead. He would know. He would feel different, he’s sure of it.

Lord Stark murmurs something Erik can’t catch to his blond captain. The captain merely frowns at him. Like Erik, he is not sitting at this high council of lords, but unlike Erik, he is standing by Lord Stark’s chair. Erik is on his knees next to Raven. Raven who is still wearing her widow’s black, and has refused to sit on the throne in the room.

“I do not accept that my brother is dead. Not yet.” Raven says, gentle and immovable. “This isn’t womanly grief talking,” she adds, glancing at General Shaw. “This is logic. Had these… nameless bandits killed his majesty, why would they have taken the body?”

No one answers her. Eyes meet and glance away again, unwilling to either talk to the Princess as a rational being or dismiss her contributions out of hand. Raven’s lips thin.

“But, if they took Ch—the King for ransom, why haven’t they issued any demands?” Lord Tony asks. General Shaw’s eye flicks in his direction, with an air of surprise. Tony doesn’t smile at him. Erik can’t smile at anyone, or meet their eyes in such an environment, but where Shaw is involved, he does not want to.

He’s still half-certain that Shaw is behind the whole tale of Charles’s vanishing. It would be just like him, to try and ruin a king, a kingdom. Unfortunately, only Logan thinks the same way; no one else, though wary of the General’s power, considers him disloyal. So they can’t detain him for questioning. Unfortunately.

“It has been several days,” General Shaw says, after a pause. “We cannot know Charles’ fate yet, but I think we must prepare for the worst, even as we hope for the best.”

“And what, General, is the worst, in your opinion?” Raven asks, back straight and voice level. Erik leans against her a little; it’s the most support he can offer in public. A corner of her mouth curves upwards; apart from when Kurt is in the room, it’s the closest she’s come to smiling since her brother vanished.

“That our King is your son.” Shaw says, and Erik would almost swear the murdering bastard looks regretful about that. “You may wish to think about Kurt’s Regent—”

“No.” Raven’s voice is decidedly firm. “I will not. Not yet.”

“Besides,” Tony cuts in. “She’s his mother, she’s royal—of course if Kurt ever needed a Regent, it would be you, my Princess.” His mouth is smiling but his eyes are sharp. Raven gives him a small, cold nod. Erik feels a breath of relief that Lord Stark is on their side.

Shaw looks amused, over a deeper anger. “I hardly think that—”

“I hardly think that this is the appropriate time to discuss such things.” Raven says. “I have received reports from the trackers—” Her fingers stutter over the pages. Erik bends to recapture one stray piece of paper. He returns it to her gracefully. She thanks him with a nod.

“Princess, why are you being attended by your brother’s bodyservant?”

Shaw again. Erik doesn’t tense or look up, but it takes effort. Raven smoothes a hand over his short cut hair as she replies, disinterestedly.

“I’ve none of my own; and my ladies are with my son. Erik is utterly loyal and completely discreet. Who else should I employ?”

“Hmm.” Shaw is thinking about Erik. Erik doesn’t… doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want people remembering who he is, not now, when Charles is gone, and it is suddenly so very clear how little protection Erik has from the ravaging attentions of the Court without him. So far, no one has done more than try to touch, and Erik hasn’t had to do anything drastic; but he fears, should he have to, he will no longer be safe from the consequences.

A page walks in and hands more papers to Shaw. He does not even bow to the Princess, until Shaw pointedly jerks a thumb at her. After a cursory glance at the letter, Shaw gives the Princess an apologetic nod and stuffs them in his pocket. The page frowns. Shaw waves him away and returns to looking at Erik, or through him.

“So, what’s the area covered in the first search?” Lord Stark again, thank the night.

“The night he was discovered missing the teams covered this area marked in red…”

Papers rustle. Erik doesn’t turn to stare at them. He already knows them well enough to paint them blindfold, and besides, he’s just a slave—the doings of his betters are not for him to observe.

Across the room, Shaw is looking at him again. Erik holds position. Raven’s hand lands on Erik’s shoulder, and he’s very glad of it.

The meeting is breaking up, and two lords are busy talking the Princess into a coma. Probably they want to be remembered as charming and supportive when— _if_ —the question of a Regency comes up. Or they hope to marry the Princess and scramble to power that way. Erik holds the Princess’ papers and does not let a flicker of the burning hatred and disgust he has for such vultures show on his face.

“Erik.” Erik turns to find General Shaw much too close to him. He starts to kneel.

“My lord General.”

“Oh, stop it.” Shaw says softly, eyes bright with amusement. “You’re not cut out for humility.”

Erik straightens and moves back, out of easy touching range. Shaw simply smiles at him and steps forwards. Erik goes still. He refuses to back away from this man, no matter how much the prospect of being touched by him is turning Erik’s stomach.

Shaw sticks his hands in his pockets and smiles at him. Erik blinks.

“They disgust me too,” Shaw says lightly.

“Sir?”

“The scavengers.” Shaw waves a hand over the rest of the room. “Too lazy to work for real power, but greedy enough to want it anyway.” His smile widens. “Not like you and I. Now we, we have a real appreciation of such things and their cost.”

Erik says nothing. He’s no scavenger, but he’s nothing like Shaw. Nothing at all.

“You strike me as someone who is not lazy. Or foolish. I know you’re in a tricky position right now.” Shaw murmurs, moving closer yet again. “You need help. Someone who—”

“Sir.” Erik catches Shaw’s hand before it can make contact with his face. “The King commanded me to let none touch me, save himself or those he granted permission.” He tries to sound dryly apologetic. “He has not granted you such permission.” He releases the General’s arm; it drops to Shaw’s side.

“He _has_ not commanded otherwise?” Faint mockery flickers in his tone.

“Not yet, sir.” _Nor will he ever._ Erik knows that.

“Ah. Yet another compelling reason to find his majesty alive and well.” Shaw’s grin is like a leech; the teeth are invisible, but it drinks all the available hope and safety in seconds.

“Sebastian!” A voice crows in the General’s ear, making him jump. Erik slides his gaze sideways and recognises Lord Stark with some relief. “Shame on you, man, for leaving the Princess so fair undefended from the slime!” He smiles like a razor, and wastes no time guiding the General away from Erik and towards the beleaguered Raven.

Erik does not let himself sag with relief. Not here, where there are many eyes, and he dare not show weakness. He adjusts his grip on the papers he holds for the Princess, and glides to her side, all grace and poised power, as a bodyservant should.

“My Lady.” Raven looks up at him with an expression of hope. “You asked me to remind you when Kurt’s lessons would begin. To speak to the tutors.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, of course,” Raven says. “Gentlemen.” She fixes the lords around her with a stern eye. “I trust we all remember what we agreed on so recently?” They all nod, assure her they know their duties, and long to carry them out. “Good. Then let us be about them.” Raven turns away from them. “Erik. Walk with me.”

Erik follows her out gladly.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Logan and Erik have a midnight meeting.
> 
> Words are exchanged. 
> 
> Decisions are made.

Erik stares, wide-eyed, at the embers of the fire. Of all the ways the Palace has changed since the King’s hunting trip, the emptiness within his private chambers is one of the worst. Erik can hardly bear to go to bed anymore; he sleeps—if he can call it that—by the fire, or in a chair.

Even then, the space is too full of memories; Charles’s face the first night Erik spent in these chambers, promising Erik he would not be hurt. Charles’s hands on his when Erik fell apart in fear of pain cream. Charles’s gasp when Erik had taken him into his mouth for the first time. Charles.

_Where are you, Charles?_

The King’s bed without the King in it is too vast, too empty. Too nightmare-ridden for Erik to get true rest; and he needs to be able to rest, at least a little. The courtiers are growing restless, and soon their manoeuvring for place and face in the newly Kingless palace is going to tip over into the administration of the realm. Badly.

Things grow more uncertain daily. Duels are being fought again, despite Charles’s father having banned them. Apparently over honour and insults, but Erik knows even first-blood ones are a product of politicking, as well as the sudden apparent loss of a firm hand on the wheel of the ship of state.

Shaw, that damnable man, smiles and moves about the place as if he has already been handed the Regency, despite the fact that the King’s sister actually appears in Charles’s place where she can, and speaks in the high councils for him. _Charles is not dead,_ Erik insists to himself, fiercely. No Regent will be _needed._

Despite the fact that she is the mother of the (very young) heir, and a gifted administrator in her own right, far too much of Raven’s time is spent avoiding being side-lined as the High Council frets and fumes while dealing with the emergency. Lord Stark helps as much as he can, but he has his own position—his own people—to protect. General Shaw is already making noises about drafting him and his men, for the duration.

Erik’s not sure if the General actually wants Stark—by all accounts the man is hell to live or work with—or just wants to disable him. In any case, the point is moot. Tony can resist, of course, but throw his weight around too much, and he’ll have to put not his money—he has plenty—but his _people_ where his mouth is.

Nothing Logan has turned up has linked the General—or the army—to the missing King. General Shaw was either very, very discreet, or else had not yet moved against Charles. Erik would put all his money, if he had any, on Shaw being discreet, but unfortunately, his vote doesn’t count for much. Or anything, really.

The door creaks open quietly. Erik drops flat on the floor, a hand on his blade.

“Bub, I can smell you. Quit hiding, it’s just me.” Logan doesn’t sound annoyed he can’t see Erik. Approving, almost.

Erik relaxes, and sits up.

“Over here.” He reaches for a slender splinter of wood from the spill box and lights it from the ends of the fire. Logan moves into the room properly, shutting the door behind him firmly. “What is it?” The flaming spill gives only flickering light; so Erik reaches for the nearest candle. 

“Shaw’s gone. Upped sticks in the night. Him and his secretary and the soldiers he came in with.”

 _”What?”_ The spill of wood burns Erik’s fingers, and he drops it, leaving it to burn out on the rug by itself.

In the dim light of the one candle Logan looks drawn and weary. It’s how he’s looked ever since Charles vanished. The men Logan sent out with Charles were trained by him; and it’s clear the King’s chief bodyguard blames himself for their death.

“Looks like you were right, bub. Bastard _is_ mixed up in this.” He slouches into the nearest chair.

“How—how soon can he get in contact with the army?” Erik stands. He needs to move.

“Probably already was.” Logan shrugs. “Maybe it was related to what my trackers found, earlier.”

“They found a trail?” Hope blooms in Erik’s heart. He bites down on it, picking up the nearest lamp and lighting it from the candle.

“They found dead bodies. More dead bodies.” Logan says as Erik frowns. 

He doesn’t ask why Logan thinks that a random batch of dead bodies is related to the King being missing. There’ll be a link of some sort.

“Who? And where?” More information, he needs more. Erik shakes himself further awake. He moves to pick up the lamp on the other side of the fireplace. Logan turns in his chair to face him as he goes.

“Bandits. Way down on the trail to Eddington.”

Erik frowns. Logan looks at him, patiently. “Family estate? S’where Charles stashed the Markos, remember? Thought you might have—”

“I don’t remember!” Erik says, instantly. “I don’t—I didn’t leave the rooms he trained me in, I—” He cuts himself off with a hard shake of the head. “What kind of bandits?” He returns the second lit lamp to its place and settles at last, in the chair opposite Logan’s. This is a real development, the first they’ve had, it seems.

“Lowlifes, but really well-equipped ones.”

“How so?” _What kind of special equipment do bandits need, anyway?_ Erik finds himself wondering giddily, suddenly dizzy with the new information. Large sacks, for loot? Specially decorated weapons?

“They all had telepathy-blocking helmets,” Logan says.

Erik gapes. Those are expensive and rare. Usually.

“Ask me how they died.” Logan’s smile is unpleasant. Erik returns it with a sharp grin of his own.

“How did they-?” Logan doesn’t let him finish the question.

“We’re not sure, but probably poison.” Logan shrugs. “No injuries, but a disease wouldn’t have hit them all so fast and simultaneously. Not one that left no symptoms. Doubt they all had heart attacks at the same time.”

Erik frowns, leans forwards, thinking hard.

“They had the equipment. They take Charles. Then they all die—except their—” he swallows ”—asset. But he’s not there with them. So someone might have taken the King from them.”

“Or paid them to, and then made sure they couldn’t talk.”

“How much money did they have on them?” Erik asks, instantly. Logan looks at him, pleased he’s following along so fast.

“Too much.”

“Bribed,” Erik says. “But they couldn’t be sure they’d keep quiet about it.” And then: “Marko.”

“The Lord Regent wouldn’t—” Logan says, carefully. Erik scoffs.

“No, but Cain damn well would, and you know it.”

“But why wouldn’t Kurt blow the whistle?”

“On his son? Maybe he doesn’t know. He never—” Erik stops. Breathes again. “There were places. Places he didn’t—”

Logan leans forwards.

“It’s possible,” Erik hears himself say, distantly. “That Cain could keep someone locked away at Eddington; and the majority of the household wouldn’t know.”

“And Shaw lit out tonight,” Logan growls. “Before my trackers came to me.”

“He knows.” Erik can hardly keep still in his seat. “He’s behind this. I—”

“May be, maybe not.” Logan tilts his palm sideways. “It’s gonna need careful—”

“When do we leave?” Erik demands, roughly. They can’t hang about now, just talking, when they might have a lead on the King. On Charles.

“What? Bub, you can’t go.” Logan looks compassionate. “You need written leave and that’ll tip half the spies off, and—”

“I know the manor, I can be—” Erik insists, breathless with urgency.

“S’why I came, wanted t’ plan the house out—”

“Take me,” Erik says. “Please. If Charles is there, if he _is_ —I can help.”

“I was going alone,” Logan says. “Quick recon mission and track down Shaw was all.” Erik grits his teeth, and doesn’t remind Logan of their sparring; Erik’s gotten good in a fight now. Logan frowns thoughtfully at him. “But might be this’d go better with two.”

“You mean it?” Erik tries to keep the hope from his voice.

“Not exactly in the habit of saying what I don’t mean, am I? If you’re willing to risk it—”

“I don’t think he’s going to order me flogged or disciplined even if I was running away from him and not towards,” Erik says.

Logan grimaces. Bodyservants are more restricted in their movements than other slaves. If Charles were any other owner, Erik would be looking at mutilation for trying to escape, right now.

“If Charles is there, then he’s worth any risk,” Erik says, quietly. “And if he’s not—Well. We’ll deal with that when it happens.” He tries for a brave smile.

“If he’s not, we’ll think of something.” Logan promises Erik quietly. “Now. Show me your wardrobe.”

It’s so unexpected, Erik blinks at him. Logan gives him a wry smile.

“What? If you’re coming with, we’d best make sure you’re dressed for it. Come on—don’t want to keep the horses waiting.”

“What-? I— This way.” Erik hastens to the clothes press.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, back at the manor...
> 
> People arrive. Plots are considered. Consequences are explored.

Charles never really thought about it; the many different ways his body could be made to hurt. He’s encountered the pain of beatings and thirst and hunger before now, but never this incessant burning of pain cream; and Cain has started to become… inventive, in his insistence that Charles do what he says.

Charles will not break. Not for Cain.

There is so much pain, it’s hard to think now, but he knows he can’t let go. Not now. He has to keep thinking, he has to endure. Erik needs him. Needs Charles to endure what Erik has suffered before him, needs Charles to keep saying _no_ even when pain or hunger have stolen whatever he’s actually saying no to.

He thinks Erik needs him, anyway.

It’s hard to be sure, now. But he has to cling to something. When Cain comes back—and he will come back—Charles needs something, someone to hold on to, to keep himself strong. Abstract things like the good of the Kingdom, or his own honour are too vague, too far away. Erik is always with Charles, lurking in the memories he flees to when the hurting gets worse again.

Erik’s smile, Erik’s eyes, Erik’s hands. Erik.

The pain is a little bit less, now. He can thank Erik for that little trick. Not only because piss really does stop pain cream burning when nothing else does, but the level of stink that deliberately lying in his own piss has created around Charles has Cain and his minions keeping their distance, a lot of the time. Makes it easier for Charles to pretend he’s hurt worse than he is.

Footsteps echo along the floor, and Charles tenses as the door scrapes open. He doesn’t open his eyes or move. He’s tired. And he knows how this goes, anyway. Cain postures for a while, there’s some shouting, and then Cain gets to do what he really wants to do, which is hurt Charles. It’s the same every time.

Only this time is different. There are voices, different ones, and too many feet.

Charles does his best to look half dead. It is not exactly a struggle. He must be convincing, because the voices talk as if they are not afraid of being overheard.

“Thank you for coming, General.” That’s Kurt, not Cain. Cain had said he was sick. Charles is a little surprised. He never thought his former guardian would lend himself to something like this.

“Oh, when I received your letter, my Lord Regent, I simply had to come.” Charles freezes. Now Shaw, Shaw would definitely lend himself to something like this, if he thought he could get away with it. “You were so very compelling.” The General purrs. “And I can quite see why.

Kurt stumbles as he heads towards Charles. Someone thrusts a boot under Charles’s shoulder, and uses it to flip him over, roughly. Charles can’t hold back the moan of pain as his head bounces on the floor, sending an agonising jolt through his whole body. He keeps his eyes shut.

“You said he was unconscious!” Shaw snaps, rattled. “That—”

“He is,” Kurt says, as wrinkled hands reach for Charles’ face.

Charles lies limp, forcing himself to breathe shallowly as Kurt smoothes his mattered hair from his face.

“He was always weak. But he’s my—our King.” His words are soft, and Charles realises that what he thought was exhaustion in Kurt’s voice is actually something closer to shame.

“Is he breathing?” Shaw’s voice comes closer then. A hand cups Charles’ chin, tilting his head this way and that. “What did your son use? He stinks.”

“Pain cream. To start with.” Shaw laughs, startled. He prods up and down Charles’s body, testing for something. Charles can’t hide his flinches, but he keeps his eyes closed. Shaw seems to think he’s unaware; let him keep thinking that.

“And he’s still wearing it? He’ll likely be mad or witless by now, then.” The hand drops away and Charles lets his head thud back to the pallet, playing near-dead.

“Cain is…He’s young. Impatient. I never thought he’d go this far,” Kurt pleads. “And when I did, I didn’t know—I thought—we could deal with this _quietly,_ you and I, and no one need know. Cain is— This would see him executed as a traitor. He’s a _Marko._ ”

“How?” Shaw sounds distantly amused.

“Rescue him.” Kurt begs. “Take the King away with you. He won’t be any trouble, you can see that. Just—find him somewhere, somewhere else, and restore order to the court. You swore an oath to protect the country.“

“Oaths, is it now? When you’ve let the King you swore to protect be treated so? Hardly honourable.” Shaw laughs, harshly. “And when he wakes? What if he remembers all this? What if he can still identify people who hurt him?” Shaw says, still amused. “Oh, no. No, Lord Marko, I don’t think that’ll work.”

“He won’t remember.” Kurt mumbles, and under the flaring fear and pain, Charles feels a faint flicker of sympathy for the man. Kurt Marko might be a stubborn, strict man, but he is, in his own way, honourable. And he’s trying to save his son, or his family name, at least.

“He might not even wake up.” Kurt says, defensively, and Charles feels the flicker of sympathy die. “I can’t let my son kill the King. But I can’t—I’m a _Marko._ We are an old name; and executing my son as a traitor would—” Pounding feet at the door, now. Kurt climbs to his feet.

“Father—General!” Cain. Angry. And also frightened.

“Lord Cain,” Shaw says, infinitely polite, and still so very amused. “You father has… appealed to me for help. In concealing _your_ mess.”

“What have you _done!”_ Cain bellows at his father. “I had this all under control; as soon as he writes the letter—”

“Letter?” Shaw asks, silkily. “I’m sorry, you’ve reduced him to this state—a toe prods Charles’s hip— “And you think he’s able or willing to write you a letter?”

“Naming me Regent, of course.” Cain snaps. “That’s all—”

“And then what, idiot?” Kurt snarls, moving away from Charles. “You couldn’t just let him go, he’d—”

“I see where you get your brains from, Cain.” Shaw says, genially. “Your father’s plan is as bad as yours. Really, did neither of you think tactically at any point?” Footsteps tread slowly past Charles, and a boot comes down on his fingers. He can’t quite suppress the noise of pain. Someone—Shaw, he thinks—kicks Charles in the head, casually. The world fades away for a time.

“In any case.” Shaw is saying, when Charles’s hearing recovers. “I decline to be further involved in this. I won’t be helping either of you in these clumsy schemes.” Charles frowns. Wait. Is Shaw—is he planning to _help_?

“Wait.” Kurt says, as Cain growls. “You have to do something. He’s your King, too, if you’re not going to help us—”

“I’m not going to hinder, either.” Shaw assures him, and Charles’s faint hope of rescue fades. “Let go of me.” Shaw adds sharply. “Damn it, you fools. You interfered with _my_ plans, you’ve attempted to involve me in your own for no good reason, and you think I’ll help you, to my cost? Dear Charles hardly had time for me before, now you dare try and make me complicit in this?”

Kurt shouts then, and Cain yells, and there’s the sound of a struggle in the doorway. Charles tries to roll his head, to open his eyes and see what’s going on, but he can’t.

Kurt makes a noise. A startled, hurt noise. Cain cries out, too. There’s a heavy thudding sound. Charles curls in on himself as much as he can. Fighting is bad. Angry people are—he’s fading a little, and he’s finding it hard to think. Kurt wheezes for a breath or so and then stops.

“You old fool.” Shaw pants. “I didn’t want to do that.” More noise. Charles wants to whimper; doesn’t. He’s not going to break, not here, not in front of these people.

“You’ve killed him!” Cain snarls. “I’m—Murder! Stop him, somebody!” Running feet. And then more silence.

Charles gets his eyes open. Cain has vanished, in search of the General, and the door… the door is open. Charles stares for a long moment. He knows what he has to try and do, but it seems so hard. He thinks about Erik. What would Erik do, here?

Slowly, Charles manages to roll over and get to his hands and knees. He thinks briefly about standing, and then gives it up as a bad idea. He grits his teeth and moves. One hand in front of the other, one knee after the other, and Charles begins to crawl, creakily, towards the door.

He thinks of Erik every inch of the way.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw plots and fumes. Charles wakes up, even though he desperately wants to go on dreaming. Erik's exactly where he needs to be.

General Shaw glares across the dripping clearing and resists the urge to swear.

He is reasonably certain that he made the wrong snap decision. He can’t regret killing Lord Kurt Marko—the pompous elderly bag of wind was been the one responsible for mixing him up in his son’s stupidity in the first place. But he _can_ regret writing the King off so quickly.

He pushes himself stiffly to his feet and begins to pace. His men trade nervous glances.

“Keep tending to the horses!” Shaw snaps, harsh. “We can’t rest them for long.” They turn back to their work instantly. Sebastian smiles to himself. He does like to see obedience in action.

True, the boy—man—had been tortured to the point of pissing himself, not just in fear, but as a loss of more general control of bodily functions. Shaw is an army man; he could tell from the level of stink that the King had been covered in piss, repeatedly, over a longer period of time than might be explained by mere fear. Loss of function like that often meant the mind behind it was also gone.

And he’d looked weak lying there, shamming dead in his filth, while people tallied up his fate over his battered body. Sebastian cannot abide weakness in others, when it isn’t useful to himself. And the king has already shown he is like to be… difficult, now he rules alone.

But Shaw’d left Cain alive, in the race to get out of the house before it became too widely known that he was in it. Now it is apparent the King will die in it, and die quite soon, if left to Cain’s tender care. Before Kurt’s blood has had a chance to cool, or his corpse to stiffen.

Now, however, the General can see that explaining his retreat, tactical and sensible as it was, to the Court or the Princess, will be a little… challenging.

And then he smiles.

Challenging, yes. But isn’t he _good_ at challenges?

“Janos.” Sebastian snaps his fingers. “Paper and ink, if you please. And somewhere dry to write.”

_To: Her Royal Highness, the Princess Raven, etc., etc._

_My Lady._

_I write in haste, and with most grave news._

_The King your brother is dead—_ He will be soon, anyway, Shaw thinks— _most piteously slain by his cousin, Lord Cain Marko—who is now, after the murder of his own father, a further foul and unnatural crime—Lord Marko in truth, at least until he faces a court of attainder._

 _Marko seized the King and tortured him; to what purpose,_ he writes, lying cheerfully, _I know not. When his father summoned me to rescue the King, Marko killed both father and royal cousin. I arrived too late and was barely able to fight my way free._

_I caution you against revealing Marko’s wickednesses to anyone until I am at your side to support you and your son. The court is restless and ambitious enough to cause very much trouble._

_I have gone to muster my men, and will return with all haste to help you keep the country and city pacified during this most terrible time._

_Do you but name me Lord Regent, and your son shall be safely crowned King as soon as may be, I swear it. The armies are mine to command, and so they, as I am, are yours._

_Your most obedient servant,_

_Sebastian Shaw, Commander-General of the Armies of Genosha._

General Shaw signs and seals his letter. There. The die has been cast; the decision made. The King is likely already dead, or at least mad enough that his tales of the true events at the Marko house will never be heard, let alone believed. This will bring Marko down, and strengthen Shaw’s own position immeasurably.

“Janos. Take this. Ride as if all the devils of night were at your heels, and place this in the hands of the Princess—no one else, do you hear me?—as soon as possible.” He hands the letter to Janos, who takes it, wide-eyed. The General tosses him a heavy purse. “Founder your horse, if necessary, and buy another. If that founders, buy yet another still. But get that to the Princess within two days. I will be with you as soon as I have the army.”

Janos catches the purse and turns away, tucking the letter under his shirt.

The General mounts up. He summons his men by eye, and points north, to the nearest army mustering point. “We ride!” he shouts. “For the Kingdom, for the King—we ride!”

 _For my Kingdom._ Sebastian amends, silently, as the horse’s hooves pound. _Mine, now._ Kurt is but four—or is it three?—years old. If Sebastian can’t hold the country until the lad is twenty five, he is no General. And much can happen, in twenty years.

A grieving Princess can be wooed and won.

A bodyservant can be usefully employed.

A child can be taught manners and respect and the ways of the world.

A general can become a King, in power and control, if not in name.

 

Charles doesn’t want to open his eyes. He isn’t quite sure where he is, or if he’s awake, but he does not want to open his eyes to find out. Until he does that, there is a chance that he is somewhere safe, and that—that they won’t be coming to hurt him again for a while.

He is warm, clean, and the pain has subsided to almost bearable levels of discomfort. _Most likely a dream, then._

There probably isn’t any point in stretching his mind out. After days of pain in the telepathy-blocking helmet, Charles is almost used to complete silence. And again, if he tries and can detect nothing, it will mean he is still captive, maybe just dreaming; but he can’t dream the rest of his life away.

He’s tried. Cain had found ways to waken him that Charles doesn’t like to think about.

No, he isn’t going to open his eyes. They can’t _make_ him. Noises, then, outside—wherever he is. Charles can hear feet on wooden floors, voices—he will wake soon, with all of that racket. Wake up, and the dream will vanish, and he’ll be back in stinking, agonised reality.

A sudden fear squeezes his heart. What if he is actually awake?

What if they’ve got tired of the smell, and Cain has had Charles cleaned up, and put somewhere comfortable, so he can take it all away again? Perhaps Cain wants him to contrast the pain with comfort, in case Charles gets too used to the pain for Cain to be able to enjoy the suffering? What if—

Charles squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to shake. He’s not going to wake up, he’s not—

He is waking up.

Charles can’t do this anymore. He _can’t._ The shaking grows worse. Any minute now, someone will come through that door, and they’ll probably be Cain, and he’ll laugh, and then he’ll start hurting Charles again, and he _won’t stop_.

Charles knows he has to endure, but he honestly doesn’t think he can. Not anymore. With that realisation, something shatters in the King’s chest. He is weak. Breaking. He can’t hold on, can’t endure any more. Not even for—

“Charles?”

Erik’s voice. Lords of night, _that is Erik’s voice._

“Charles, are you—can you hear me?”

Charles opens his eyes.

“Erik.” His voice cracks half way through the name and his eyes grow wet. “I—” His voice dies.

Erik seems entirely unsurprised, simply bending over the—he’s in a bed, Charles realises—bed and peering at Charles with gentle concern.

“Charles. You’re safe.” Charles blinks at him, as Erik stretches out a long arm to enfold him and draw him up. “I promise. You’re in a safe house.”

Charles sways, unable to sit up unaided, and dizzy. Gently, Erik sinks to sit on the bed, pulling Charles to lean against his chest. The soft nap of Erik’s shirt against his cheek feels better than any dream.

“Erik.” Charles says again. And then: “I’m s-sorry.”

“Whatever for?” Erik sounds puzzled. Charles swallows. Erik—now and always—deserves the truth.

“I—he, I said no, but he kept—if I’d woken up back there, I’d—” His throat is very dry. And the words won’t come properly.

Erik frowns, slightly, and reaches out to the stand by the bed for a glass of water. He puts it to Charles’s lips and the king drinks, slowly.

“I—”

“Drink it all.” Erik says softly, eyes dark. “You were—you weren’t in very good shape; and you’ve been asleep, mostly. You need to drink.” He puts the half-full glass back to Charles’s mouth. Charles reaches up a trembling hand to try and help; but between the bandages and the missing fingernails, it’s more of a hindrance.

Erik doesn’t seem to mind, wrapping his hand around Charles’s fingers until the glass is empty.

“I’m sorry.” Charles says again, a little more clearly, as Erik puts the empty cup back on the side with a satisfied air.

“What for?” Erik seems genuinely puzzled.

“I-I tried to hold out.” Charles says. “I—thought of you; and what you—well. I tried. But—”

“You didn’t write him the letter he wanted.” Erik says, quietly certain, as he wraps his arms around Charles more tightly. Charles sighs, soaking in the comfort of Erik’s presence, Erik’s faith in him, however unjustified.

“No, but—Just now I—if he’d been there, I’d have—I—” Charles is trembling again. He feels sick. He feels disgusted with himself for being so weak.

“No, you wouldn’t.” Erik says, serenely.

“How can you know that?” Charles turns his face against Erik’s shirt. Hiding, always hiding. His throat hurts.

“Charles.” Erik drops a quick kiss on the top of his head. “I know you.”

Charles opens his mouth. His eyes are burning.

“In any case,” Erik continues, smoothly. “Cain is dead. Since he’s never going to lay a finger on you again, it doesn’t matter. You’re safe. You’re _safe,_ Charles. Everything will be alright.”

Quietly, Charles starts crying. Erik cradles his skull in one large hand, holding Charles up and close to him. He lets the king sob into his shirt without a word of scorn or remonstrance, patient and loving.

 _I don’t deserve you,_ Charles thinks, after some little time spent dribbling tears all over Erik’s chest.

“No, but you’re stuck with me anyway.” Erik tells the top of Charles’s head, cheerfully. “Sorry about that.”

 _Sorry,_ Charles says, faintly. _I seem to be leaking._ Why can’t he stop crying?

“If you mean my shirt, well, that will dry.” Erik says, a little less brightly. “And if you mean the head thing, well, you’ve—I was the person who took that damn helmet off you, so.” He shifts a little, using all of his limbs to envelop Charles a little more securely.

“Oh.” Charles searches in his memory for how he arrived here, wherever here is, and how Erik arrived here, and comes up with very little.

“Erik?”

“Yes?” Erik says, and Charles loses some time listening to the inexpressible comfort of the sound of Erik’s voice and breathing and pulse transmitted from his chest through the soggy shirt and into Charles’s ear.

“Erik?” Charles says, a little later.

“Still here.”

“How did we? I mean, how did we get here… and where is here, anyway?”

“We’re in a safe house for former child slaves.” Erik tells him. “The one in the woodlands between the Marko place and the city.”

“Ah.” Charles racks his brains. Raven had used most of her mourning year setting them up: these half school, half family establishments, safe places where the enslaved young can learn to be free and learn a trade. But who had been placed here?

“R—the Princess said that it would a good base to investigate from.” Erik says, a little awkwardly. “So when Shaw left the Palace so secretly, Logan and I followed him.”

“But—” Charles frowns into Erik’s chest. “How did you—how did you g-get me out? I, I—”

“What’s the last you remember?” Erik asks in quick concern.

“I—Kurt. Kurt was dead. And the d-door was open. I couldn’t walk, but I knew I had to, to get out.” Charles pauses, takes a deep breath. “What happened?”

“Um. I did.” Erik says. “I—That’s why Cain is dead.”

“What?”

“Do you—you can look.” Erik takes Charles’s left hand, the one without any broken fingers, and guides it to his temple. Presses Charles’s hand to his head in mute invitation.

“Are—are you sure?”

“You’ve seen me chained and kneeling for you, Charles. You’ve seen me begging and terrified.” Charles frowns at Erik’s murmur, and tries to move his hand away. Erik holds him there, gently insistent. “You can see me like this, too.” Charles tilts his head, and searches Erik’s face. Erik gives him a little encouraging nod.

Softly, Charles slips into Erik’s memories.


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did Cain die? Like this....
> 
> Erik shows Charles his memories of rescuing him.

“You’re sure you can get us inside the house?”

Memory Logan is shorter than Charles is used to; and then he remembers. These are Erik’s memories, so he’s seeing things from Erik’s taller perspective.

“Yes, Logan.” Erik says, tersely. “I’m sure. There’s no activity outside the house; if Cain has Ch—” his voice catches. “If Cain has him, they’re in the house itself.”

The night is dark and full of shadows and blurs. Erik creeps, Logan creeps, around the gardens and outskirts of a house Charles recognises as Kurt Marko’s pleasant not-quite-prison.

 _Kurt’s dead._ Erik reminds him, here in the present. _And, um the house, that’s not—it’s going to need some repairs._

 _?_ Charles has nothing but curiosity now. Erik’s mood shifts, becoming awkward.

_Just, um, keep watching._

Charles does.

Erik bends the bars back on a ground floor window, allowing Logan and then himself to slip inside.

“Said y’r Talent’d come in useful,” Logan whispers, amused and business like. “Come on. Where’s the most likely place they’d be holding him?”

Erik says nothing, but he’s running through his memories of the places he was kept here, keeping a rigid clamp on the emotions that should go with them. Charles is briefly awed by the strength Erik has, to be able to do that.

“This way,” Erik breathes, and sets off, Logan following him. They ghost along.

The house is too empty. There should be at least one or two servants, scuttling between late night or very early morning chores; there should be the dogs Kurt is-was—fond of, but there’s nothing, no one at all.

“Where’s Shaw?” Logan asks. “Or his men? There’s no one here.”

Erik’s heart sinks.

“Could they have left and taken h—”

Logan’s hand closes on his wrist in a brutal grip.

 **“Quiet,”** he breathes into Erik’s ear, cold and full of intent. Erik closes his mouth and listens.

Stumbling feet; someone cursing, and heavy dragging noises.

Erik wrenches himself free of Logan’s grip and moves in that direction. He recognises the voice; it’s Cain…moving something heavy.

Logan bites back a swearword and hurries after him.

Erik slaps open the iron-barred door to the Great Hall with a blow from his mind.

The scene that meets his eyes causes him to freeze where he stands. He’s dimly aware of Logan darting around him as he stares, rigid with rage and fear.

The Great Hall is not well lit. Light comes from the banked fire, and from a few candles scattered about. Erik steps forwards.

A branching candelabrum on a table casts flickering shadows across Cain, his bulk looming ominously over a crumpled bundle of rags on the stone floor.

“Useless, stubborn bastard.” Cain pants, hands on his knees. “I just wanted the damn letter, why couldn’t you—”

Erik blinks, and it is Charles lying at Cain’s feet; pale and silent, eyes closed. He is shirtless and barefooted. He’s wearing the filthy remains of his hunting leathers and a strange helmet strapped to his head. Erik can smell him from across the room.

Erik steps forwards again. Logan growls.

“Get away from him, bub.”

Cain glances up—had he not even heard them? His lips curl, his eyes blaze—near-madness gleaming within.

“You!”

Logan runs his claws out and assumes a fighting stance. “I said, ‘get away from him.’ ”

Snarling wordlessly, Cain goes for his sword. Logan grins and leaps.

Frustratingly for the Charles in Erik’s mind, watching raptly, Erik has no eyes for the fight. He drops to his knees by Charles-the-captive and extends a shaking hand to Charles’s bare shoulder.

Charles groans, and Erik’s heart leaps—he’s alive! But the joy is drowned in a steadily growing rage as he begins to tally up the injuries Cain has inflicted on his royal cousin. On _Charles._

Metal clashes somewhere behind him. Erik pulls Charles into his lap. Charles groans again, but he doesn’t open his eyes. One of the silver candlesticks falls over and rolls towards Erik. He ignores it. Charles is still breathing, and his pulse is steady, if fast.

“Charles.” He begs, softly, “Open your eyes. Please.” Charles’s eyes move behind their bruised lids, but he either can’t or won’t look at Erik. The old shield hung over the fireplaces drops with an echoing clang, and scrapes the floor as it slides toward the metalbender.

Every square inch of Charles’s skin is bruised or burnt or cut. The lines of ribs and tense muscles strain underneath; dirt smears over blood, both fresh and dried, and that over older, crusted fluid. The lines of pain in his face hurt Erik’s heart to see. The blisters on his fine, freckled, skin look familiar.

Time seems to change, goes heavy and slow, when Erik realises why.

“Pain cream. You dared.” He sucks in a breath. And then, louder. “You miserable bastard, you _dared?!_ ”

He eases Charles out of his lap, and stands.

“Logan.”

“Minute.” Logan doesn’t turn his head, advancing on Cain with a fearsome grin.

Erik rips the poker and the fire irons from the fireplace. Coals explode outward in their wake, scattering onto the carpet and floor. He hurls the metal pieces across the room, shaping them as they go, and by the time they reach Cain they are unbreakable iron bands with pointed ends. They take Cain by his throat and wrists and feet; they drag him down, biting into the floorboards with eager teeth.

Logan barks out a startled laugh. Cain howls. The room is filling with smoke from the scattered coals. A tapestry starts to smoulder. Erik uses the nails in a bench to sweep the floor between him and his target clear of coals.

 

“Logan.” Erik says, again. “Take Charles out of here.” He sounds very calm. Distantly, he’s pleased by that. “He needs help.”

(In Erik’s mind, Charles stares, dazed and astonished at the love and determination building in Erik as he moves past Charles-the-captive. It rises in him like water; a pure and clear and suffocating tide. It washes Erik beyond fear, beyond rage, into the deadly serene calm found in the eye of the storm. It is huge, and towering, and killingly beautiful.)

“Bub.” Logan starts to say, and then looks at him, sharply. “All right.” Then, more softly,“Alright.” His claws retract, and he moves to Charles-the-captive-‘s side. Charles gives a little cry when Logan moves him. Erik glances at them both sharply, but subsides when he realises Charles probably can’t be touched without pain, right now.

The serene calm wavers. Erik turns back to Cain, and slowly advances. A pewter tankard ricochets off Cain’s temple and thuds to the floor. For the first time he truly seems to see who Logan brought with him on the rescue mission. His eyes widen incredulously.

“The goddamn _slave_ , Charlie?” A candlestick bowls past Erik’s shoulder, and slams into the floor by Cain’s knee. Cain yells, hoarsely.

“Yes,” Erik hisses. “The goddamn slave.”

Cain gapes at him.

“You hurt him.” The words grind up through Erik’s throat, thick with rage. He swallows. “I’m going to kill you.”

Logan stands, clasping Charles bridal style against his broad, hairy chest, and starts to walk away. A small storm of metal items hovers in the air, outlining Erik like a cape. Cain struggles against his bonds, uselessly. Logan is at the door. He turns to look back. Erik grins, mirthlessly.

“How does it feel, _master_?” he sneers. “Being helpless? Being at someone’s mercy?”

“Release me!” Cain yells. Erik chuckles. Again, louder: “I order you to release me!” Erik slowly shakes his head.

“Hey!” Cain shouts at Logan. “You can’t just leave me like this! He’s crazy!! And—”

Logan walks out of the room. Cain shouts at him to come back, to bring Charles back.

“He’s mine!” Cain insists, eyes glittering feverishly. “I—my father-he owes me!”

“You used pain cream on him.” Erik says, calm again. “I should use it on you.”

“You—you wouldn’t _dare_ , slave!”

Every window in the Great Hall implodes at once.

Erik drags up the leading that had held the tiny panes of glass together, shaping it into spears, into needles, into daggers and darts.

In waves, he flings them at Cain, taking care not to hit him in the throat or the heart. Some miss the blubbering mass entirely. Most hit, and their new edges are very sharp.

Cain yells, and howls and, finally screams, as the lead cuts and cuts and cuts.

(Charles reels at the satisfaction he feels, rising as Cain’s suffering increases; not in Erik, but in his own self. Erik holds him tightly, steadying his King with a very present love.)

When Cain is a wet, twitching mess, Erik releases his grip and all the hovering metal crashes to the floor. Erik blinks down at Cain who is far beyond speech or thought, and shakes himself. The tapestries are burning now. It’s probably time to go. Erik turns and strides swiftly away, leaving Cain and his house to the newly hungry fire.

He is dazed and tired, but Charles needs him, and while Charles needs him, Erik will always be strong.


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles, recovering. Erik, caring.
> 
> :)

Sunlight streams in through the window, setting alight floating dust specks like drifting sparks. To Charles, they look similar to Erik’s last memory of rescuing him; a final glance back at the sparks floating over the blazing wing of the house, Charles a limp bundle in his arms.

The room is quiet around them; very clean but plain. The walls are limewashed, not hung with tapestries, and the fireplace is smaller still. No fire blazes in it; it is as empty and dry as if no fire has ever been laid there. Charles tilts his head to look at Erik, lying apparently carelessly by his side.

Yet Charles can feel the watchful protective tensions running through Erik’s frame as if they’re his own. He takes another minute to bask in the sweet and simple pleasure of his unfettered telepathy before he brings himself to speak.

“You killed Cain.” Charles’ voice doesn’t shake. Erik gazes at him, grey eyes steady and clear as the northern seas on a summer day.

“Yes.” Erik doesn’t regret Cain’s death, neither fact nor the method; unless seeing the memory upsets Charles.

“I think I’m more upset by the fact that I’m not upset.” Charles shifts a little, raising his head to look Erik in the eye. “Your Talent is most impressive, by the way.”

Erik smiles down at him, but his eyes are shadowed with concern. “Charles, are you—”

“I’m going to be fine.” Charles hopes against hope that it’s not a lie. He never wants to lie to Erik. He clears his throat. “I-I don’t. I—”

His eyes are filling with tears. Again.

Something really isn’t right with him, Charles knows. Not the physical hurts. Something more, something worse. He’s—. Well. Broken. Frightened. It doesn’t matter how you describe it; he’s not as he was. Not as he is needed to be by his kingdom. Nausea swirls in his gut.

“Charles,” Erik says. “Charles. Don’t.”

“Don’t _cry_?” Charles snaps. He can hear the childishness of his tone, and it frightens him.

“Not that,” Erik says, softly. “No, cry if you want, just don’t—you’re not broken.”

“I’m still leaking.”

“A little, but—” Erik wavers, uncertain. “Charles. You’ve been tortured. Of course you want the person dead. Of course him being dead doesn’t magically make it better—”

“I _know—”_

“It gets better,” Erik says, voice soft and aching with memories. “Believe me.”

“I—” Charles runs out of words. Erik was a slave, a bodyservant, for well over a decade. How could he have forgotten this; that Erik has been—more or less—in the same dark places Charles visited so briefly? Shame fills him.

“It takes time.” Erik’s words are a promise and a prayer. “But you’ll heal.”

Charles rests his cheek against Erik’s hand and closes his eyes for a long moment.

The silence is broken by someone scratching on the door. Erik opens his mouth and then glances down at Charles, waiting on his response.

“Come in, please.” Charles tries to reassemble his social courtesies and the pleasant masking smile that goes with them from whatever corners of his mind Cain scattered them to.

A young man, dark-skinned enough to have Wakandan ancestry enters. He’s carrying a covered tray wafting the most enticing smells, and Charles is suddenly, completely ravenous. He tries not to stare or drool too openly.

“Hi.” The accent is pure Genoshan, with more than a little City drawl. “Jean sent me up; figured you both might be ready for some food.” His skin darkens as he blushes. “Um. Your Majesty. Sir.”

“Just Charles is fine,” Charles murmurs. These former child slaves are all dear to his heart: as the seeds of complete liberation, and as themselves. And besides, he is too hurt and too tired for Court formality right now.

“Yes, sir,” The young man says, slightly disbelievingly. “Uh, I’m—my name here is Darwin.”

Charles gives up on delineating formality right now. Too complex. The food is right there, and Erik is a long line of warmth and support down his side. He wriggles, wincing as his aches and pains jolt with the movement, until Erik has them both sitting upright, leaning on the headboard. Darwin leans forwards and lays the tray over Charles’s lap very gently.

He whisks the cloth cover away. The bowls steam invitingly, and Charles has to swallow against the warm saliva pooling in his mouth. He hasn’t eaten very much recently. He still has to bite his lip against whimpering aloud as the tray settles against his legs; it’s not that it hurts so much as the anticipation that it will.

“All right?” Erik asks, quickly. Darwin glances at them, unsure,

“Fine,” Charles says, softly, before turning his head to smile reassuringly at Darwin. “This all looks marvellous; thank you.”

Darwin smiles and his shoulders relax. Charles gazes at the food—so much food!—in front of him. He swallows again. He wants to shovel all of it down this throat as fast as he can; he knows he can’t. Grasping at restraint, he turns to Erik.

“Erik, when did you last—”

“Oh, no,” Erik rumbles, amused. “No, Charles, stop worrying about me. I’m fine. Eat.”

“But—” Charles blinks.

“Please, Charles,” Erik says softly, eyes dark. “You need to eat. You need to focus on yourself, for a little.”

Charles’s eyes sting as he turns back to the tray. Clumsily, with his left hand—the one without broken fingers—he picks up a spoon and starts in on the soup.

It’s delicious. Light and subtly flavoured; it fills his mouth with savoury delight before slipping smoothly down his dry throat and settling feather-light in his uneasy stomach.

Once he’s satisfied that Charles is eating, Erik digs into his own bowl eagerly.

“Tatses good,” Erik mumbles around a mouthful of bread. Darwin grins.

“I’ll tell Jean; she’ll be delighted. She likes to cook.”

Charles lets the conversation go on over his head, focusing on the soup. He doesn’t try the bread; it’s too… difficult. Soup doesn’t need any chewing; the teeth currently wobbly after a punch or kick too many don’t need anything that will make them worse. He considers trying the soft cheese next. His left hand aches. Old bruises are stubborn, it seems.

Charles slowly spoons up his soup, drinking in the safety, the relief of being somewhere away from Cain, and the—

 _Cain’s dead._ Charles remembers abruptly. _The house was on fire._

A hot wave of savage satisfaction fills him; and Charles wishes he could blame the feeling on Erik, but in all honesty, the emotions are coming from him. His hand shakes. Charles breathes in, flexes his grip on the spoon and keeps eating.

“Charles?”

He flinches hard, and the spoon twists out of his bandaged fingers to land in the soup bowl, splattering the bed and Erik and Charles with heavy warm droplets

“S-sorry.” He offers Erik and Darwin a weak grin. “S-seems like I’m still—still a little clumsy.” Darwin nods blandly, but a slight crease forms between Erik’s eyebrows which tells Charles they’ll be talking about this sooner or later. 

Charles would like it to be later, please.

Darwin swoops in, and with a respectful murmur, rescues the soup bowls and tray from Charles’s clumsiness.

“Please.” Charles almost begs. “Call me Charles. I-I don’t want—I’d like to not have to be, to be who I always am.” He’s still so _tired._ “At least for a time,” he adds, glancing aside, as Darwin’s eyes widen and Erik’s narrow in sudden thought.

“As you... wish, sir. Charles!” Darwin fairly yelps the last word. “Charles,” he repeats, a little more softly, eyes full of wonder.

Erik grins, flickering and sharp. Darwin shakes himself and backs out of the room, tray in hand.

“Come on.” Erik lifts the covers. “Slide down again. You need to rest.”

“But—” Charles protests, weakly. “Surely we need to—”

“Rest.” Erik actually climbs off the bed as part of his efforts to get Charles to lie back down. “None of us are going anywhere until you can travel, Charles.” 

Grumbling, Charles lies down again. It is very nice, to be sure, to be lying stretched out on clean, cool linens, wrapped in bandages and wearing a clean nightshirt. But his concerns nag at him even as his eyes get heavier.

“We need—Raven should be informed,” he murmurs, forcing his eyes open. “And the Court—”

“As soon as your wounds were treated, Logan left for the City.” Erik speaks softly as he tucks the blankets around Charles’s shoulders. “Raven knows by now that you’re safe. We can—you don’t have to deal with anything else until he returns.” Erik steps away, towards the window.

“But—” Charles’s words are disrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn. Charles is the King. He has duties, obligations. He really should—

“Sleep.” Erik urges, so gently. “You’re safe, and you’re fed and you’re getting better. That’s enough for now.” The room dims as Erik pulls the curtain closed.

Charles can’t keep his eyes open anymore. So he doesn’t.


End file.
